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EDITED BY 



10S ©AWHIllacJ^^^ 

Har+^Vi^^^ The o^ic-y-e -,.-J 

A NEW EDITION, WITH SEVERAL NEW BALLADS. 



W&itl^ illustrations. 




i 



REDFIELD, 

CLINTON HALL, NEW-YORK. 

1852. 



-^^^^l 



CONTENTS. 



Ijiiittisti Soollois. 



PAGE 

THE BEOKEN PITCHER . . . .8 

DON FERNANDO GOMERSALEZ : from the Spanish— of 

Astlet's . . . . . . 6 i ', 

THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID . . . 20 i -5 



amniran UnlUii 



THE FIGHT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE, OR THE 
AMERICAN ST. GEORGE :— 

Fttte Fiest ..... 

Fytte Second .... 

THE LAY OF MR. COLT :— 

Steeak the FmsT .... 

Streak the Second . . 

THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR 
THE ALABAMA DUEL .... 
THE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO BOZ 



29 



i 



40 


> ] 


45 




60 


4^1 


56 


5-1 



VI CONTENTS. 



3JlistBllllEHlIS ^DEllub; 



THE STUDENT OF JENA . . . .63 

THE LAY OF THE LEVITE ... 68 

BUKSCH GKOGGENBUEG . . . .70 

NIGHT AND MOKNING . . . .74 

THE BITEE BIT . . . . .76 

THE CONVICT AND THE AUSTRALIAN LADY . 79 

THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONORABLE I. O. 

UWINS ..... 82 

THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUR'S DAUGHTER 83 
THE MIDNIGHT VISIT . . . .94 

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN ... 99 

MY WIFE'S COUSIN . . . . .109 

THE QUEEN IN FRANCE : an ancient Scottish Ballad :— 

Part I. . . . . .113 

Part II. . . . . . 119 

THE MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON : from the 

Gaelic . . . . .125 

THE YOUNG STOCKBROKER'S BRIDE . . 129 

THE LAUREATES' TOURNEY :— 

Fttte the First . . . . 133 

Fytte the Second .... 138 

THE ROYAL BANQUET .... 142 

THE BARD OF ERIN'S LAMENT . . .147 

THE LAUREATE . . . .149 

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION . . . .153 

MONTGOMERY: a Poem .... 157 

THE DEATH OF SPACE . . . .160 

LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR : a Lay of Sher- 
wood : — 

Fttte the First .... 162 

Fytte the Second . . . .168 

THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE . 176 

THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND . . 190 

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI . . .194 

THE CADI'S DAUGHTER : a Legend of the Bosphorus 198 



CONTENTS. 



VU 



MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS (oontintjed) :— 
EASTEEN SEEENADE 
THE DEATH OF DUVAL 
THE DIKGE OF THE DEINKEE 
DAME FREDBGONDE . 
THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL . 
FARE'S LIFE PILLS 
TAEQUIN AND THE AUGUR 
LA MORT D' ARTHUR 
JUPITER AND THE INDIAN ALE . 
THE LAY OF THE DOUDNEY BROTHERS 
PARIS AND HELEN i 

SONG OF THE ENNUYE 
CAROLINE .... 
TO A FORGET-ME-NOT . 
THE MISHAP 

COMFORT IN AFFLICTION 
THE INVOCATION . 
THE HUSBAND'S PETITION 





202 




• 


205 


^3 




. 210 


:78 


. 


213 


■-■/ 




. 218 


• r f 




220 


' ■-'"' 




. 222 


!>1 




224 


^1 




. 225 


' 'h 




227 


'' + 




230 


"' ' 




233 






236 






239 






241 






244 






246 






249 





Co:me, buy my lays, and read tliem if you list ; 
My pensive public, if you list not, buy. 
Come, for jou know me. I am be who sung 
Of Mister Colt, and I am be wbo framed 
Of "Widdicomb the mild and wond'rous song. 
Come, listen to my lays, and you shall bear 
How Wordsworth, battling for the laureate's 

wreath. 
Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball ; 
How ]Sr. P. Willis, for his country's good, 
In complete steel, all bowie-knived at point. 
Took lodgings in the Snapping Turtle's mouth. 
Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear 
The mingled music of all modern bards 
Floating aloft in such peculiar strains, 
As strike themselves with envy and amaze ; 
For you " bright-harped " Tennyson shall sing ; 
Macaulay chant a more than Eoman lay ; 
And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst. 
Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog. 
Bawl melancholy homage to the man : 
For you once more Montgomery shall rave 
In all his rapt rabidity of rhyme ; 
Nankeen'd Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note, 
And our Young England's penny trumpet blow. 



SPAIISH BALLADS 



€^ aornten f itrln^r. 



It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, 

And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell, 

When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of 

Oviedo — 
Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo. 

" Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden 1 why sitt'st thou by the 

spring 1 
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing 1 
Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and 

wide. 
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy 

side?" 

" I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, 
Because an article like that hath never come my way ; 
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell. 
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon 
swell. 



12 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is, — 

A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss ; 

I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I 

spoke, 
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was 

broke. 

" My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home. 
And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. 
I cannot bring him water — the pitcher is in pieces — 
And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his 



"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled 

by me ! 
So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses 

three ; 
And I '11 give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous 

lady, 
To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde." 

He lighted down from off his steed — he tied him to a 

tree — 
He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three : 
"To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a 

sin !" 
He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. 

Up rose the Moorish maiden — behind the knight she 

steals, 
And caught Alphonzo Guzman up tightly by the heels ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



13 



She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bub- 
bling water, — 

" Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's 
daughter !" 

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo ; 
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. 
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, 
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well. 




14 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



inn /EEirata #nniBr3iiUi 



FROM THE SPANISH OF ASTLEY S. 

Don Fernando Gomersalez ! basely have they borne 

thee down ; 
Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body 

thrown ; 
Fetters have they bound upon thee — iron fetters fast 

and sure ; 
Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor ! 

Long within a sable dungeon pined that brave and noble 

knight, 
For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared 

his might; 
Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed 

of stone. 
Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone. 

On the twentieth day of August — 't was the feast of 

false Mahound — 
Came the Moorish population from the neighboring cities 

round ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 15 

There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and 

there to sing, 
And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, the 

King ! 

First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them 
at their utmost speed. 

Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light 
jereed ; 

Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow 
flies. 

Did they spurn the yellow saw-dust in the rapt specta- 
tors' eyes. 

Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior 

greet, 
As he sat enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath 

his feet ; 
" Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi ! are there any in 

the land, 
That against my janissaries dare one hour in combat 

stand V 

Then the bearded Cadi answered — " Be not wroth, my 

lord, the King, 
If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little 

thing ; 
Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards 

are long and hairy. 
And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary : 



16 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forgot that fearful 

day. 
When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array ; 
When they charged across the footlights like a torrent 

down its bed, 
With the red cross floating o'er them, and Fernando at 

their head ! 

" Don Fernando Gomersalez ! matchless chieftain he in 

. war. 
Mightier than Don Sticknejo, braver than the Cid 

Bavar ! 
Not a cheek within Grenada, O my King, but wan and 

pale is, 
When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando 

Gomersalez !" 

" Thou shalt see thy champion. Cadi ! hither quick the 

captive bring !" 
Thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke Al-Wijidicomb, 

the King ; 
" Paler than a maiden's forehead is the Christian's hue I 

ween, 
Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath 

been !" 

Then they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the 

warrior in, 
Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was 

pale and thin ; 



\ 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 17 

But the ancient fire was burning, unallayed, within his 

eye, 
And his step was proud and stately, and his look was 

stern and high. 

Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried 

crowd refrain, 
For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the 

plain ; 
But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons 

in steel, 
So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville. 

" Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the 

dungeon dark and drear. 
Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement 

for a year "? 
Dost thou lead me forth to torture 1 — Rack and pincers 

I defy— 
Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero 

die?" 

" Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff! and attend to 

what I say : 
Thou art called the starkest rider of the Spanish curs' 

array — 
If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of 

yore. 
Thou may'st yet achieve thy freedom, — yet regain thy 

native shore. 



IS THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"Courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors 

shalt thou run, 
Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon 

muslin sun ; 
Victor — thou shalt have thy freedom ; but if stretched 

upon the plain, 
To thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall bear thee 

back again." 

" Give me but the armor, monarch, I have worn in many 

a field. 
Give me but a trusty helmet, give me but my dinted 

shield ; 
And my old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the 

ring. 
And I rather should imagine that I '11 do the business, 

King !" 

Then they carried down the armor from the garret where 

it lay, 
O ! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn 

away; 
And they led out Bavieca, from a foul and filthy van, 
For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dogs-meat 

man. 

When the steed beheld his master, then he whinned loud 

and free. 
And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken 

knee; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 19 

And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids 

rose, 
As he fondly picked a beanstraw from his coughing 

courser's nose. 

" Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through 

the fray ! 
Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this 

day; 
Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come 

to pass, 
Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us. were sent to 

grass !" 

Then he seized his lance, and vaulting in the saddle, sate 
upright. 

Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the 
mailed knight ; 

And a cry of admiration burst from every Moorish 
lady— 

" Five to four on Don Fernando !" cried the sable- 
bearded Cadi. 



Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space, 
Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alham- 

bra race : 
Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost 

straight went down. 
Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, just before the jeering 

Clown. 



20 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to 
the King, 

And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of 
the Ring; 

Through three blazoned hoops he bounded ere the des- 
perate fight began — 

Don Fernando ! bear thee bravely ! — 'tis the Moor Ab- 
dorrhoman ! 

Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sul- 
phurous sky, 

Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the saw- 
dust fly ; 

And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fernan- 
do's mail. 

That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca's tail. 

But he caught the mace beside him, and he griped it 
hard and fast, 

And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bound- 
ed past ; 

And the deadly stroke descended through the skull and 
through the brain. 

As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in 
twain. 

Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish war- 
riors all. 

Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his 
brethren fall ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 21 

And the Clown in haste arising from the footstool where 

he set, 
Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat ! 

Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart 

Moor, 
Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the 

trembling floor ; 
Five Arabians, black as midnight — on their necks the 

rein he throws. 
And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his 

toes. 

Never wore that chieftain armor ; in a knot himself he 

ties, 
\Yith his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his 

thighs. 
Till the petrified spectator asks in paralyzed alarm — 
Where may be the warrior's body, — which is leg, and 

which is arm 1 



" Sound the charge !" the coursers started ; with a yell 
and furious vault, 

High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous 
somersault ; 

O'er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he 
sprung. 

Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behmd the crup- 
per hung. 



22 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 

Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its 

jewelled sheath, 
And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled him 

beneath, 
That the good Damascus weapon sunk within the folds 

of fat, 
And, as dead as Julius Csesar, dropped the Gordian 

Acrobat. 

Meanwhile, fast the sun was sinking, — it had sunk be- 
neath the sea. 

Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three ; 

And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed with a bitter 
smile, 

To the deeply-darkening canvass — blacker grew it all 
the while. 

" Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard ! but thou hast 

not kept thy time ; 
Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew 

chime ; 
Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may'st be 

wondrous glad, 
That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day, 

my lad ! 

"Therefore, all thy boasted valor, Christian dog, of no 

avail is !" 
Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Fernando 

Gomersalez; — 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 23 

Stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the 

ring, 
Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at 

the King. 

" O, thou foul and faithless traitor ! wouldst thou play 

me false again 1 
Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the 

captive's chain ! 
But I give thee warning, caitiff ! Look thou sharply to 

thine eye — 
Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not 

die !" 

Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew, 
Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the 

hero through ; 
Brightly gleamed the light of vengeance — fiercely sped 

the fatal thrust — 
From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless 

in the dust. 

Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca ! speed thee faster than 

the wind ! 
Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase 

behind ! 
Speed thee up the sloping spring-board ; o'er the bridge 

that spans the seas ; 
Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of 

canvas trees. 



24 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Close before thee, Pampeluna spreads her painted paste- 
board gate ! 

Speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy 
knightly freight — 

Victory ! the town receives them ! — Gentle ladies, this 
the tale is. 

Which I learned in Astley's Circus, of Fernando Gomer- 
salez ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 26 



What a pang of sweet emotion 

Thrilled the Master of the Ring, 
When he first beheld the lady, 

Through the stabled portal spring ! 
Midway in his wild grimacing 

Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown ; 
And the thunders of the audience 

Nearly brought the gallery down. 

Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! 

Saw ye ever such a maid, 
With the feathers swaling o'er her, 

And her spangled rich brocade ? 
In her fairy hand a horsewhip, 

On her foot a buskin small, 
So she stepped, the stately damsel, 

Through the scarlet grooms and all. 

And she beckoned for her courser, 

And they brought a milk-white mare ; 

Proud. I ween, was that Arabian 

Such a gentle freight to bear : 
2 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

And the Master moved towards her, 
With a proud and stately walk ; 

And, in reverential homage, 

Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk. 

Round she flew, as Flora flying 

Spans the circle of the year ; 
And the youth of London sighing, 

Half forgot the ginger beer — 
Quite forgot the maids beside them ; 

As they surely well might do. 
When she raised two Roman candles, 

Shooting fireballs red and blue ! 

Swifter than the Tartar's arrow. 

Lighter than the lark in flight, 
On the left foot now she bounded, 

Now she stood upon the right. 
Like a beautiful Bacchante, 

Here she soars, and there she kneels. 
While amid her floating tresses, 

Flash two whirling Catherine wheels ! 

Hark ! the blare of yonder trumpet ! 

See the gates are open wide ! 
Room, there, room for Gomersalez, — 

Gomersalez in his pride ! 
Rose the shouts of exultation. 

Rose the cat's triumphant call, 
As he bounded, man and courser, 

Over Master, Clown, and all ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 27 

Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! 

Why those blushes on thy cheek ? 
Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, 

He hath come thy love to seek 1 
Fleet thy Arab — but behmd thee 

He is rushing like a gale ; 
One foot on his coal black's shoulders, 

And the other on his tail ! 

Onward, onward, panting maiden ! 

He is faint and fails — for now, 
By the feet he hangs suspended 

From his glistening saddle-bow. 
Down are gone both cap and feather, 

Lance and gonfalon are down ! 
Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet, 

He has flung them to the Clown. 

Faint and failing ! Up he vaulteth. 

Fresh as when he first began ; 
All in coat of bright vermilion, 

'Quipped as Shaw, the Life-guardsman. 
Right and left his whizzing broadsword, 

Like a sturdy flail, he throws ; 
Cutting out a path unto thee 

Through imaginary foes. 

Woolfordinez ! speed thee onward ! 

He is hard upon thy track, — 
Paralyzed is Widdicombez, 

Nor his whip can longer crack ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

He has flung away his broadsword, 
'Tis to clasp thee to his breast. 

Onward ! — see he bares his bosom, 
Tears away his scarlet vest ; 

Leaps from out his nether garments, 

And his leathern stock unties — 
As the flower of London's dustmen, 

Now in swift pursuit he flies. 
Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles, 

O'er the buckle, heel and toe ! 
And with hands deep in his pockets 

Winks to all the throng below ! 

Onward, onward rush the coursers ; 

Woolfordinez, peerless girl, 
O'er the garters lightly bounding 

From her steed with airy whirl ! 
Gomersalez, wild with passion, 

Danger — all but her — forgets ; 
Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her, 

Casting clouds of somersets ! 

Onward, onward rush the coursers ; 

Bright is Gomersalez' eye ; 
Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez, 

For his triumph, sure, is nigh ! 
Now his com-ser's flanks he lashes. 

O'er his shoulder flings the rein. 
And his feet aloft he tosses. 

Holding stoutly by the mane ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 29 

Then his feet once more regaining, 

DofFs his jacket, doffs his smalls ; 
And in graceful folds around him 

A bespangled tunic falls. 
Pinions from his heels are bursting. 

His bright locks have pinions o'er them ; 
And the public sees with rapture 

Maia's nimble son before them. 

Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez ! 

For a panting god pursues ; 
And the chalk is very nearly 

Rubbed from thy white satin shoes ; 
Every bosom throbs with terror, 

You might hear a pin to drop ; 
All was hushed, save where a starting 

Cork gave out a casual pop. 

One smart lash across his courser, 

One tremendous bound and stride. 
And our noble Cid was standing 

By his Woolfordinez' side ! 
With a god's embrace he clasped her, 

Raised her in his manly arms ; 
And the stables' closing barriers 

Hid his valor, and her charms ! 



30 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



AMEEICAI BALLADS 



€ljB /igjit mitli tli^ limppiiig Curtis 

OR, THE AMERICAN ST. GEORGE. 



FYTTE FIRST. 



Have you heard of Philip Slingsby, 
Slingsby of the manly chest ; 

How he slew the Snapping Turtle 
In the regions of the West 1 



"&' 



Every day the huge Cawana 
Lifted up its monstrous jaws ; 

And it swallowed Langton Bennett, 
And digested Rufus Dawes. 

Riled, I ween, was Philip Slingsby, 
Their untimely deaths to hear ; 

For one author owed him money, 
And the other loved him dear. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 31 

" Listen, now, sagacious Tyler, 

Whom the loafers all obey ; 
What reward will Congress give me, 

If I take this pest away f 

Then sagacious Tyler answered, 

" You're the ring-tailed squealer ! Less 

Than a hundred heavy doliai-s 
Won't be offered you, I guess ! 

" And a lot of wooden nutmegs 

In the bargain, too, we'll throw- 
Only you just fix the criter — 

Won't you liquor ere you gol" 

Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby 

Into armor of Seville, 
With a strong Arkansas toothpick 

Screwed in every joint of steel. 

" Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant, 

Come with me as squire, I pray ; 
Be the Homer of the battle 

That I go to wage to-day." 

So they went along careering 

W^ith a loud and martial tramp, 
Till they neared the Snapping Turtle 

In the dreary Swindle Swamp. 

But when Slingsby saw the water, 

Somewhat pale, I ween, was he. 
" If I come not back, dear Bryant, 

Tell the tale to Melanie ! 



2Q THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Tell her that I died devoted, 

Victim to a noble task ! 
HaVt you got a drop of brandy 

In the bottom of your flask V 

As he spoke, an alligator 

Swam across the sullen creek ; 

And the two Columbians started 

When they heard the monster shriek : 

For a snout of huge dimensions 
Rose above the waters high, 

And took down the alligator, 
As a trout takes down a fly. 

" 'Tarnal death I the Snapping Turtle !" 
Thus the squire in terror cried ; 

But the noble Slingsby straightway 
Drew the toothpick from his side» 

" Fare thee well !" he cried, and dashing 
Through the waters, strongly swam : 

Meanwhile Cullen Bryant, watching, 
Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram. 

Sudden from the slimy bottom 
Was the snout again upreared, 

With a snap as loud as thunder, — 
And the Slingsby disappeared. 

Like a mighty steam-ship foundering, 
Down the monstrous vision sank ; 

And the ripple, slowly rolling, 

Plashed and played upon the bank. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Still and stiller grew the water, 

Hushed the canes within the brake ; 

There was but a kind of coughing 
At the bottom of the lake. 

Bryant wept as loud and deeply 

As a father for a son — 
" He's a finished 'coon, is Slingsby, 

And the brandy's nearly done!" 



FYTTE SECOND. 

In a trance of sickening anguish, 
Cold, and stiff, and sore and damp, 

For two days did Bryant linger 
By the dreary Swindle Swamp; 

Always peering at the water, 
Always waiting for the hour. 

When those monstrous jaws should open 
As he saw them ope before. 

Still in vain ; — the alligators 

Scrambled through the marshy brake, 
And the vampire leeches gaily 

Sucked the garfish in the lake. 

But the Snapping Turtle never 
Rose for food or rose for rest, 

Since he lodged the steel deposit 
In the bottom of his chest. 
2* 



34 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Only always from the bottom 

Violent sounds of coughing rolled, 

Just as if the huge Cawana 
Had a most confounded cold. 

On the bank lay CuUen Bryant, 
As the second moon arose ; 

Gouging on the sloping green sward 
Some imaginary foes. 

When the swamp began to tremble 
And the canes to rustle fast, 

As if some stupendous body 

Through their roots was crushing past. 

And the water boiled and bubbled, 
And in groups of twos and threes, 

Several alligators bounded. 

Smart as squirrels up the trees. 

Then a hideous head was lifted, 
With such huge distended jaws, 

That they might have held Goliath 
Quite as well as Rufus Dawes. 

Paws of elephantine thickness 
Dragged its body from the bay, 

And it glared at Cullen Bryant 
In a most unpleasant way. 

Then it writhed as if in torture, 
And it staggered to and fro ; 

And its very shell was shaken, 
In the anguish of its throe : 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 85 

And its cough grew loud and louder, 

And its sob more husky thick ; 
For, indeed, it was apparent 

That the beast was very sick. 

Till at last a violent vomit 

Shook its carcass through and through, 
And, as if from out a cannon, 

All in armor Sllngsby flew. 

Bent and bloody was the bowle, 

Which he held within his grasp ; 
And he seemed so much exhausted 

That he scarce had strength to gasp — 

*' Gouge him, Bryant ! darn ye, gouge him ! 

Gouge him while he's on the shore !" 
And his thumbs were straightway buried 

Where no thumbs had pierced before. 

Right from out their bony sockets. 
Did he scoop the monstrous balls; 

And, with one convulsive shudder. 
Dead the Snapping Turtle falls ! 



"Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!" 
Bat the old experienced file, 

Leering first at Clay and Webster, 
Answered, with a quiet smile — 



36 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



Since you dragged the 'tarnal crittur 
From the bottom of the ponds, 

Here's the hundred dollars due you. 
All in Pennsylvanian Bond^^ /" 




'The only Good American Securities." 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 87 



\t ITot! Df 3lr. Cnlt. 



[The story of Mr. Colt, of which our Lay coutaius merely the sequel, 
is this : A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effron- 
tery to call upon him one day for the payment of an account, which 
the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to frag- 
ments with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, sprinkling it 
with salt, and despatched it to a packet, bound for New Orleans. 
Suspicions having been excited, he was seized, and tried before Judge 
Kent. The trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records 
of any country. The ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and 
examined in disgusting detail, as to her connexion with Colt, and his 
movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. The 
head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, hand- 
ed up to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel ; and 
to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch's own 
counsel, a Mr. Emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admis- 
sion that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a 
detail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal murder in the 
first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by 
telling the jury, that his client was " entitled to tlie sympathy of a jury 
of his country," as " a yoimg man just entering into life, wJiose pros- 
pects, probably Jiave been permanently blasted. " Colt was found guilty ; 
but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, 
and after a long series of appeals, which occupied more than- a year 
from, the date of the conviction, the sentence of death was ratified by 
Governor Seward. The rest of Colt's story is told in our ballad.] 

STREAK THE FIRST. 
* * * * 

And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage 

knot was tied, 
And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside ; 



60 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Let 's go," he said, " into my cell, let 's go alone, my 

dear ; 
I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's 

odious leer. 
The gaoler and the hangman, they are waiting both for 

me, — 
I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee ! 
Oh, how I loved thee, dearest ! They say that I am i 

wild, \ 

That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of 

her child. 
They say my bowie knife is keen to sliver into halves 
The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves. 
They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted 

beef, 
I packed my quartered foreman up, and marked him 

' prime tariff ;' 
Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John 

Bull, 
And clear a small per centage on the sale at Liverpool ; 
It may be so, I do not know — these things, perhaps, may 

be ; 
But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee ! 
Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is 

ours, — 
Nay, sheriff, never look thy watch — I guess there's good j 

two hours. j 

We '11 shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world i 

at bay. 
For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 89 

STREAK THE SECOND. 

The clock is ticking onward, 

It nears the hour of doom, 
And no one yet hath entered 

Into that ghastly room. 
The gaoler and the sheriff 

They are walking to and fro ; 
And the hangman sits upon the steps, 

And smokes his pipe below. 
In grisly expectation 

The prison all is bound, 
And save expectoration. 

You cannot hear a sound. 
The turnkey stands and ponders. 

His hand upon the bolt, — 
" In twenty minutes more, I guess, 

'T will all be up with Colt !" 
But see, the door is opened ! 

Forth comes the weeping bride ; 
The courteous sheriff lifls his hat. 

And saunters to her side, — 
" I beg your pardon, Mrs. C, 

But is your husband ready 1" 
" I guess you'd better ask himself," 
Replied the woful lady. 

The clock is ticking onward, 

The minutes almost run. 
The hangman's pipe is nearly out, 

'T is on the stroke of one. 



40 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

At every grated window 

Unshaven faces glare ; 
There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee, 

And Lynch, of Delaware ; 
And Batter, with the long black beard, 

Whom Hartford's maids know well ; 
And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach, 

The pride of New Rochelle ; 
Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town, 

The gallant gouging boy ; 
And coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills 

That frown o'er modern Troy ; 
* Young Wheezer, whom our Willis loves, 

Because, 't is said, that he, 
One morning from a bookstall filched 

The tale of " Melanie ;" 
And Skunk, who fought his country's fight 

Beneath the stripes and stars, — 
All thronging at the windows stood. 

And gazed between the bars. 

The little boys that stood behind 

(Young thievish imps were they !) 
Displayed considerable nous 

On that eventful day ; 
For bits of broken looking-glass 

They held aslant on high. 
And there a mirrored gallows-tree 

Met their delighted eye.* 

•A Fact 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 41 

The clock is ticking onward ; 

Hark ! Hark ! it striketh one ! 
Each felon draws a whistling breath, 

" Time 's up with Colt ; he 's done !" 

The sheriff looks his watch again, 

Then puts it in his fob, 
And turns him to the hangman, — 

" Get ready for the job." 
The gaoler knocketh loudly, 

The turnkey draws the bolt. 
And pleasantly the sheriif says, 

" We 're waiting, Mister Colt !" 

No answer 1 No ! no answer ! 

All 's still as death within ; 
The sheriff eyes the gaoler. 

The gaoler strokes his chin. 
" I should n't wonder, Nahum, if 

It were as you suppose." 
The hangman looked unhappy, and 

The turnkey blew his nose. 

They entered. On his pallet 

The noble convict lay, — 
The bridegroom on his marriage bed, 

But not in trim array. 
His red right hand a razor held, 

Fresh sharpened from the hone, 
And his ivory neck was severed, 

And gashed into the bone. 



42 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



And when the lamp is lighted 

111 the long November days, 
And lads and lasses mingle 

At the shucking of the maize ; 
When pies of smoking pumpkin 

Upon the table stand, 
And bowls of black molasses 

Go round from hand to hand ; 
When slap-jacks, maple-sugared, 

Are hissing in the pan, 
And cider, with a dash of gin, 

Foams in the social can ; 
When the good man wets his whistle. 

And the good wife scolds the child ; 
And the girls exclaim convulsively, 

" Have done, or I'll be riled !" 
When the loafer sitting next them 

Attempts a sly caress, 
And whispers, " Oh ! you 'possum, 

You 've fixed my heart, I guess !" 
With laughter and with weeping. 

Then shall they tell the tale, 
How Colt his foreman quartered, 

And died within the gaol. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 43 



€^t ifnll; (Df Mt] Bnllnr. 

[Before the following poem, which originally appeared in " Fraser's 
Magazine," could have reached America, intelligence was received in 
tliis country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of 
that which the Author has liere imagined in jest. It was very clear, 
to any one who observed the state of joublic manners in America, 
that such occurrences 7mist happen sooner or later. The Americans 
apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely re- 
printed throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this 
country, embodied in an American work on American manners, 
where it characteristically appeared as the writer's own production ; 
and it afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amu- 
sing satire by an American, of his countrymen's foibles !] 

The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took 

the chair, 
On either side, the statesman pride of fair Kentuck was 

there. 
With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in 

his cheek 
His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster 

rose to speak. 

Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat, 
And like a free American upon the floor he spat ; 
Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his 

manly chin, 
" What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's 

skini" 



44 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



"Young man," quoth Clay, "avoid the way of Slick 

of Tennessee, 
Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest 

gouger he. 

He chews and spits as there he sits, and whittles at the 
chairs. 

And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he 
bears. 



" Avoid that knife ! In frequent strife its blade, so long 

and thin, 
Has found itself a resting-place his rival's ribs within." 
But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar's 

heart, 

"Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty 
smart!" 

Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward 
the chair, 

He saw the stately stripes and stars— our country's flag 
was there! 

His heart beat high, with savage cry upon the floor he 
sprang, 

Then raised his- wrist, and shook his fist, and spolce his 
first harangue. 

"Who sold the nutmegs made of wood-the clocks that 
wouldn't figure 1 

Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark,-the ever- 
lasting nigger ? 



J 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 45 

For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity 

I'll kick 
That man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced 

Colonel Slick!" 



The colonel smiled — with frenzy wild, — his very beard 

w^axed blue, — 
His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he 

grew; 
He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat 

below — 
He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe, — 

" Oh ! waken, snakes, and walk your chalks ! " he cried, 
with ire elate ; 

" Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my 
weight ! 

Oh ! 'tarnal death I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, 
and your chaffing, — 

Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them with- 
out laughing ! " 



His knife he raised — with fury crazed, he sprang across 

the hall ; 
He cut a caper in the air — he stood before them all : ' 
He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should 

do. 
But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar 

flew. 



46 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

They met — they closed — they sunk — they rose, — in vain 

young Dollar strove — 
Tor, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate 

colonel drove 
His bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground 

they rolled. 
And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in 
^-^^A. other's hold. 



With fury dumb — with nail and thumb — they struggled 

and they thi-ust, — 
The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon 

the dust; 
He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sunk 

and died. 
Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side. 

Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave 

youth ; 
The bowie-knife had quenched his life of valor and of 

truth ; 
And still among the statesmen throng at Washington 

they tell 
How nobly Dollar gouged his man — how gallantly he 

fell! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 47 



€^t Sllfibnina BubL 

" Young chaps, give ear, — the case is clear. You, Silas 

Fixings, you 
Pay Mister Nehemiah Dodge, them dollars as you 're 

due, 
You are a bloody cheat, — you are. But spite of all 

your tricks, it 
Is not in you. Judge Lynch to do. No ! no how you 

can fix it !" 



Thus spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama's 

forum. 
Around he gazed with legs upraised upon the bench high 

o'er him ; 
And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood 

beneath, 
Still, with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his 

teeth. 

It was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was 

the air, 
A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er 

his chair ; 
All naked were his manly arms, and, shaded by his hat, 
Like an old Senator of Rome, that simple Archon sat. 



48 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" A bloody cheat?— Oh, legs and feet !" in wrath young 

Silas cried ; 
And, springing high into the air, he jerked his quid 

aside. — 
" No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings 

trifle, 
As long as Silas Fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle." 

" If your shoes pinch," replied Judge Lynch, " you '11 

very soon have ease, 
I '11 give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you 

please ; 
Where are your weapons ?— knife or gun ?— at both I 'm 

pretty spry !" 
"Oh! 'tarnal death, you 're spry, you are?" quoth 

Silas ; " so am I !" 

Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades 
of time. 

And they have sought that forest dark at morning's 
early prime; 

Lynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a 
friend, 

And half the town in glee came down, to see that con- 
test's end. 

They led their men two miles apart, they measured out 

the ground ; 
A belt of that vast wood it was, they notched the trees 

around : 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 49 

Into the tangled brake they turned them oif, and neither 

knew 
Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into 

view. 

With stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to 

tree they passed, 
They crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their 

rifles fast : 
Hour passed on hour, the noon-day sun smote fiercely 

down, but yet 
No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they 

had met. 

And now the sun was going down, when, hark ! a rifle's 

crack ! 
Hush — hush ! another strikes the air, and all their breath 

drew back, — 
Then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from 

either side 
Rushed in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss 

had dyed. 

Weary with watching up and down, brave Lynch con- 
ceived a plan, 

An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his 
man ; 

He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself 
hard by, 

Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat 

let flv, 

3 



50 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ^ 

It fell ; up sprung young Silas, — he hurled his gun away ; 
Lynch fixed him with his rifle from the ambush where 

he lay. 
The bullet pierced his manly breast — yet, valiant to the 

• last, 
He drew his fatal bowie-knife, and up his foxtail* cast. 

With tottering steps and glazing eye he cleared the space 

between. 
And stabbed the air as, in Macbeth, still stabs the 

younger Kean ; 
Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched 

him on the ground, 
Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew 

round. 

They hailed him with triumphant cheers — in him each 

loafer saw 
The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law ; 
And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his 

ease, — 
That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own 

decrees. 

They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell, 
And gum-trees wave above his grave — that tree he loved 

so well ; 
And the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights 

are long and damp. 
But he sleeps w^ell in that lonely dell, the Dreary 

'Possum Swamp. 

• The Yankee substitute for the chapeau de sole. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 51 



€^t ^mxixu'B SlpnstrnpljB tn 36n|. 

[Eapidly as oblivion dees its work now-a-days, the burst of amiable 
indignation with which enlightened America received the issue of 
Boz's " Notes," can scarcely yet be forgotten. Not content with wa- 
ging a universal rivalry in the piracy of the work, Columbia showered 
upon its author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse ; 
while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the 
propriety of gouging the "strannger," and furnishing him with a per- 
manent suit of tar and feathers, in the very improbable event of his 
paying them a second visit. The perusal of these animated expres- 
sions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who 
remember Boz's book, and the festivities with which he was all but 
hunted to death, will at once understand. We hope we have done 
justice to the bitterness and " immortal hate" of these thin-skinned, 
sons of freedom.] 

Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London's 
puling child, 

Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land 
thou hast reviled ; 

Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa should'st thou 
lie, 

Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon 
by. 

Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained 
and creaking ship. 

Thou should'st yell in vain for brandy with a fever- 
sodden lip ; 



52 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's 

expiring shade, 
From the bagman's berth above thee comes the boun- 
tiful cascade. 
Better than upon the Broadway thou should'st be at 

noon-day seen, 
Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien, 
With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest. 
Worse than even N. P. Willis for an evening party 
dressed ! 

We received thee warmly — kindly — though we knew 

thou vvert a quiz. 
Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of 

Phiz! 
Much we bore and much we suffered, listening to 

remorseless spells 
Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these ever- 
lasting Nells. 
When you talk of babes and sunshine, fields, and all 

that sort of thmg, 
Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his 

sling ; 
And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the 

many hundreds near, 
Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent earT 

Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of 

sense 
We engaged the p];ice in Park Street at a ruinous 

expense ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 53 

Ev'n our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old pre- 
scriptive right, 

And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful 
night. 

Clusters of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool. 

Saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of La 

Poule ; 

And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of 
the tune, — 

■' Don't he beat all natur hollow 1 Don't he foot it like 

a ' coon 1 " 

Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our 

whisky-grogs 1 
Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a 

Newm-an Noggs ; 
And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then 

to blame. 
To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's 

milk they came. 
Did the hams of old Virginny find no favor in thine 

eyes 1 
Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of 

pumpkin pies ? 
Could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to 

draw it mild'? 
But, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right ! We 

spoilt the child ! 

You, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with 

broadest hints 
Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints. 



54 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was 

flung; 
Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth ; yoii^ I guess, may 

hold your tongue. 
Down our throats you'd cram your projects, thick and 

hard as pickled salmon, 
That, I s'pose, you call free-trading, I pronounce it utter 

gammon. 
No, my lad, a cuter vision than your own might soon 

have seen, 
That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green. 
Quite enough we pay, I reckon, w^hen we stump a cent 

or two 
For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you. 

I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the 

Falls, 
I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious 

walls ; 
But " a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect 

peace, 
Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas 

geese. 
As for " old familiar flices," looking through the misty 

air, 
Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your 

Chuckster there. 
One familiar face, however, you will very likely see. 
If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee, 
Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch. 
In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators, Lynch. 



TH3 BOOK OF BALLADS. 55 

Half-an-hour of conversation with his worship in a wood 
Would, 1 strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of 

good. 
Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did 

before. 
Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor, 
Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the 

chairs, 
Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife 

he bears : — 
Why he sneers at the Old Country with republican 

disdain, 
And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his 

chain. 
All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land 

thou hast reviled ; 
Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's 

puling child ! 



56 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 



MISCELLAMOUS BALLADS 



Cjie Muhui nf Sm, 

Once, — 't was when I lived at Jena, — 

At a Wirthshaus' door I sat ; 
And in pensive contemplation, 

Eat the sausage thick and fat ; 
Eat the kraut, that never sourer 

Tasted to my lips than here ; 
Smoked my pipe of strong canaster, 

Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer ; 
Gazed upon the glancing river. 

Gazed upon the tranquil pool, 
Whence the silver-voiced Undine, 

When the nights v/ere calm and cool, 
As the Baron Fouque tells us, 

Rose from out her shelly grot, 
Casting glamor o'er the waters, 

Witching that enchanted spot. 
From the shadow which the coppice 

Flings across the rippling stream, 



THE BvOOK OF BALLADS. 57 

Did I hear a sound of music — 

V,'V-S it thought or was it dre^sm ? 
There, beside a piJe of linen, 

Stretched along the daised sward, 
Stood a young and blooming maiden — 

'T was her thrush-like song I heard, 
Evermore within the eddy 

Did she plunge the white chemise ; 
And her robes were loosely gathered 

Rather far above her knees ; 
Then my breath at once forsook me. 

For too surely did I deem 
That I saw the fair Undine 

Standing in the glancing stream — 
And 1 felt the charm of knighthood; 

And from that remembered day. 
Every evening to the Wirthshaus 

Took I my enchanted way. 
Shortly to relate my story. 

Many a week of summer long, 
Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken. 

With my lute and with my song ; 
Sang in mellow-toned soprano, 

All my love and all my wo. 
Till the river-maiden answered. 

Lilting in the stream below : — 
"Eair Undine ! sweet Undine ! 

Dost thou love as I love thee f 
" Love is free as running water," 

Was the answer made to me. 

S* 



58 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Thus, in interchange seraphic, 

Did I woo my phantom fay, 
Till the nights grew long and chilly, 

Short and shorter grew the day ; 
Till at last — 't was dark and gloomy. 

Dull and starless was the sky. 
And my steps were all unsteady, 

For a little flushed was I, — 
To the well accustomed signal 

No response the maiden gave ; 
But I heard the waters washing, 

And the moaning of the wave. 

Vanished was my own Undine, 
All her linen, too, was gone ; 

And I walked about, lamenting, 
On the river bank alone. 

Idiot that I was, for never 

Had I asked the maiden's name. 

Was it Lieschen — was it Gretchen 1 
Had she tin — or whence she camel 

So I took my trusty meerschaum, 

And I took my lute likewise ; 
Wandered forth in minstrel fashion. 

Underneath the lowering skies ; 
Sang before each comely Wirthshaus, 

Sang beside each purling stream, 
That same ditty which I chanted 

When Undine was my theme, 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Singing, as I sang at Jena, 

When the shifts were hung to dry, 
" Fair Undine ! young Undine ! 

Dost thou love as well as I ]" 

But, alas ! in field or village, 

Or beside the pebbly shore, 
Did I see those glancing ankles, 

And the white robe nevermore ; 
And no answer came to greet me, 

No sweet voice to mine replied ; 
But I heard the waters rippling. 

And the moaning of the tide. 



59 




The moaninsi of the tied.' 



60 r'AZ JitiOK OF BALLAU3. 



There is a sound that's dear to me, 

It haunts me in my sleep ; 
I wake, and, if I hear it not, 

I cannot choose but weep. 
Above the roaring of the wind, 

Above the river's flow, 
Methinks I hear the mystic cry 

Of ''• Clo !— Old CIo !" 

The exile's song, it thrills among 

The dv/ellings of the free, 
Its sound is strange to English ears, 

But 't is not strange to me ; 
For it hath shook the tented field 

In ages long ago. 
And hosts nave quailed before the cry 

Of "Clo!~01dClo!" 

Oh, lose it not ! forsake it not ! 

And let no time efface 
The memory of that solemn sound, 

The watchword of our r?vce. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



61 



For not by dark and eagle eye 
The Hebrew shall you know, 

So well as by the plaintive cry 
Of " Clo !— Old Clo !" 

Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, 

Or Sidon's sunny walls, 
Where, dial-like, to portion time, 

The palm-tree's shadow falls. 
The pilgrims, wending on their way, 

Will linger as they go. 
And listen to the distant cry 

Of "Clo!— Old Clo!" 




62 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



foum^ (0rnggraterg. 

AFTER THE MANNER OF SCHILLER. 

" BuRSCH ! if foaming beer content ye, 

Come and drink your fill ; 
In our cellars there is plenty ; 

Himmel ! how you swill ! 
That the liquor hath allurance, 

Well I understand ; 
But 't is really past endurance, 

When you squeeze my hand !" 

And he heard her as if dreaming. 

Heard her half in awe ; 
And the meerschaum's smoke came streaming 

From his open jaw : 
And his pulse beat somewhat quicker 

Than it did before, 
And he finished off his liquor. 

Staggered through the door ; 



THE BOOK pF BALLADS. 63 

Bolted off direct to Munich, 

And within the year 
Underneath his German tunio 

Sto^Yed whole butts of beer. 
And he drank like fifty fishes, 

Drank till all was blue ; 
For he felt extremely vicious — 

Somewhat thirsty too. 

But at length tliis dire deboshing 

Drew towards an end ; 
Few of all his silber-groschen 

Had he left to spend. 
And he knew it was not prudent 

Longer to remain ; 
So, with weary feet, the student 

Wended home again. 

At the tavern's well known portal, 

Knocks he as before. 
And a waiter, rather mortal, 

Hiccups through the door, — 
" Masters 's sleeping in the kitchen ; 

You '11 alarm the house ; 
Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen 

Married baker Kraus !" 

Like a fiery comet bristling, 

Eose the young man's hair. 
And, poor soul ! he fell a-whistling, 

Out of sheer despair. 



64 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Down the gloomy street in silence, 

Savage-calm he goes; 
But he did no deed of vi'lcnce — 

Only blew his nose. 

Then he hired an airy garret 

Near her dwelling-place ; 
Grew a beard of fiercest carrot, 

Never washed his fiice ; 
Sate all day beside the casement, 

Sate a dreary man ; 
Foimd in smoking such an easement 

As the wretched can ; 

Stared for hours and hours together, 

Stared yet more and more ; 
Till in fine and sunny weather, 

At the baker's door, 
Stood, in apron white and mealy, 

That beloved dame, 
Counting out the loaves so freely, 

Selling of the same. 

Then like a volcano puffing, 

Sm.oked he out his pipe ; 
Sigh'd and supp'd on ducks and stuffing. 

Ham, and kraut, and tripe ; 
Went to bed, and in the morning, 

Waited as before, 
Still his eyes in anguish turning 

To the baker's door ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 65 

Til], with apron white and mealy, 

Came the lovely dame, 
Counting out the loaves so freely, 

Selling of the same. 
So, one day — the fact 's amazing ! — 

On his post he died ; 
And they found the body gazing 

At the baker's bride. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



3Sigtit nui BInrmiig. 



NOT BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON. 

" Thy coffee, Tom, 's untasted, 

And thy egg is very cold ; 
Thy cheeks are wan and wasted, 

Not rosy as of old. 
My boy what has come o'er ye, 

You surely are not well ! 
Try some of that ham before ye, 

And then, Tom, ring the bell !" 

" I cannot eat, my mother, 

My tongue is parched and bound, 
And my head somehow or other, 

Is swim.ming round and round. 
In my eyes there is a fulness, 

And my pulse is beating quick ; 
On my brain is a weight of dulness : 

Oh, mother, I am sick !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 67 

" These long, long nights of watching 

Are killing you outright ; 
The evening dews are catching, 

And you 're out every night. 
Why does that horrid grumbler, 

Old Inkpen, work you so ?" 

Tom {Jene susurrans) 

" My head ! Oh, that tenth tumbler ! 
'T was that wihch wrought my w^o !" 



68 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€^. foitn foil 



The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing 

fair. 
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the 

air; 
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the 

sea, 
And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with 

me ! 

They are going to the church, mother, — I hear the 

marriage bell ; 
It booms along the upland, — oh! it haunts me like a 

knell ; 
He leads her on Ms arm, mother, he cheers her faltering 

step, 
And closely to his side she clings, — she does, the 

demirep ! 

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft 

have stood. 
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the 

wood ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 69 

And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words 

that won my ear, 
Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his 

bridal fere. 

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my 

hand he pressed, 
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion 

he confessed ; 
And down the hedgerows where we 've strayed again 

and yet again ; 
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted 

Jane ! 

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank 

and gold, 
He said I did not love him, — he said my words were 

cold; 
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher 

game,— 
And it may be that I did, mother ;^ bjwt who has n't done 

the samel ' 

I did not know my heart, mother, — I know it now too 

late; 
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler 

mate ; 
But no nobler suitor sought me, — and he has taken 

wing, 
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted 

thins. 



70 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



You may lay me in my bed, mother, — my head is 
throbbing sore ; 

And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired 
before ; 

And, if you 'd please, my mother dear, your poor des- 
ponding child, 

Draw me a pot of beer, mother, ana, mother, draw it 
mild! 




* Love gone to pot.' 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 71 



€)^t Cnunirt ml l\)t 2mlmlm itiiiti» 

Thy skin is dark as jet, ladye, 

Thy cheek is sharp and high, 
And there's a cruel leer, love, 

Within thy rolling eye ! 
These tangled ebon tresses 

No comb hath e'er gone through ; 
And thy forehead it is furrowed by 

The elegant tattoo ! 



I love thee, — oh, I love thee. 

Thou strangely feeding maid ! 
Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang, 

I meant not to upbraid ! 
Come, let me taste those yellow lips 

That ne'er were tasted yet, 
Save when the shipwrecked mariner 

Pass'd through them for a whet. 

Nay, squeeze me not so tightly ! 

For I am gaunt and thin, 
There's little flesh to tempt thee 

Beneath a convict's skin. 



72 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

» 

I came not to be eaten, 

I sought thee, love, to woo ; 

Besides, bethink thee, dearest, 
Thou 'st dined on cockatoo ! 

Thy father is a chieftain ; 

Why that's the very thing ! 
Vf ithin my native country 

I, too, have been a king. 
Behold this branded letter, 

Which nothing can efface ! 
It is the royal emblem, 

The token of my race ! 

But rebels rose against me, 

And dared my power disown — 
You've heard, love, of the judges 1 

They drove me from my throne. 
And I have wandered hither, 

Across the stormy sea, 
In search of glorious freedom, 

In search, my sweet, of thee ! 

The bush is now my empire, 

The knife my sceptre keen ; 
Come with me to the desert wild, 

And be my dusky queen. 
I cannot give thee jewels, 

I have nor sheep nor cow. 
Yet there are kangaroos, love, 

And colonists enow. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 73 

We'll meet the unwary settler, 

As whistling home he goes, 
And I'll take tribute from him, 

His money cand his clothes. 
Then on his Ijleeding carcass 

Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw, 
And lunch upon him roasted, 

Or, if you like it, raw ! 

Then come w^ith me, my princess, 

My own Australian dear, 
Within this grove of gum trees, 

We'll hold our bridal cheer ! 
Thy heart with love is beating, 

I feel it through my side : — 
Hurrah, then, for the noble pair, 

The Convict and his bride ! 



74 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€)}t MM Itnti nf i\)t fmuMi 1 dD. Smius, 

Come and listen, lords and ladies, 

To a woful lay of mine ; 
He whose tailor's bill unpaid is, 

Let him now his ear incline ! 
Let him hearken to my story, 

How the noblest of the land 
Pined long time in dreary duresse 

'Neath a sponging bailiff's hand. 

I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins! 

Baron's son although thou be, 
Thou must pay for thy misdoings 

In the country of the free ! 
None of all thy sire's retainers 

To thy rescue now may come; 
And there lie some score detainers, 

With Abednego, the bum. 

Little reck'd he of his prison 

Whilst the sun was in the sky : 
Only when the moon was risen, 

Did you hear the captive's cry; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 75 

For, till then, cigars and claret 

Liill'd him in oblivion sweet ; 
And he much preferr'd a garret, 

For his drinking, to the street. 

But the moonlight, pale and broken, 

Pain'd at soul the Baron's son ; 
For he knew, by that soft token. 

That the larking had begun ; — 
That the stout and valiant Marquis 

Then was leading forth his swells, 
Mangling some policeman's carcass. 

Or purloining private bells. 

So he sat, in grief and sorrow. 

Rather drunk than otherwise, 
Till the golden gush of morrow 

Dawned once more upon his eyes : 
Till the sponging bailiff's daughter, 

Lightly tapping at the door, 
Brought his draught of soda water, 

Brandy-bottom'd as before. 

" Sweet Rebecca ! has your father, 

Think you, made a deal of brass ?" 
And she answered — '' Sir, I rather 

Should imagine that he has." 
Uwins then, his whiskers scratching, 

Leer'd upon the maiden's face. 
And, her hand with ardor catching, 

Folded her in close embrace. 



76 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" La, Sir ! let alone — you fright me !" 

Said the daughter of the Jew : 
" Dearest, how those eyes delight me ! 

Let me love thee, darling, do ! " 
"Vat is dishT' the Bailiff mutter d. 

Rushing in with fury wild ; 
" Ish your muffins so veil Lutter'd 

Dat 3^ou darsh insult ma shild ? " 

*' Honorable my intentions, 

Good Abednego, I swear ! 
And I have some small pretensions, 

For I am a Baron's heir. 
If you'll only clear my credit, 

And advance a thou'^ or so, 
She's a peeress — I have said it : 

Don't you twig, Abednego % " 

" Datsh a very different matter," 

Said the Bailiff, with a leer ; 

" But you musht not cut it fatter 

Than ta si ish will shtand, ma tear ! 
If you seeksh ma approbation, 

You musht quite give up your rigsh ; 
Alsho you musht join our nashun, 

And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh." 

Fast as one of Fagin's pupils, 

L O. Uwins did agree ! 
Little plagued with holy scruples 

From the starting post was he. 

• The fashionable abhreviution for a thousand pounds. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. T7 

But at times a baleful vision 

Rose before his trembling view, 
For he knew that circumcision 

Was expected from a Jew. 

At a meeting of the Rabbis 

Held about the Whitsuntide, 
Was this thorough-paced Barabbas 

Wedded to his Hebrew bride. 
All his former debts compounded, 

From the spunging house he came. 
And his father's feelings wounded 

With reflections on the same. 

But the sire his son accosted — 

" Split my wig ! if any more 
Such a double-dyed apostate 

Shall presume to cross my door ! 
Not a penny -piece to save ye 

From the kennel or the spout ; — 
Dinner, John ! the pig and gravy ! — 

Kick this dirty scoundrel out !" 

Forth rush'd I. O. Uwlns fister 

Than all winking — much afraid, 
That the orders of the master 

Would be punctually obeyed : 
Sought his club, and then the sentence 

Of expulsion first he saw ; 
No one dared to own acquaintance 

With a bailiff's son-in-law. 



78 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Uselessly down Bond-street strutting 

Did he greet his friends of yore : 
Such a universal cutting 

Never man received before : 
Till at last his pride revolted — 

Pale, and lean, and stern he grew ; 
• And his wnfe Rebecca bolted 

With a missionary Jew. 

Ye who read this doleful ditty, 

Ask ye where is Uwins now^ ? 
Wend your w^ay through London city, 

Climb to Holborn's lofty brow\ 
Near the sign-post of the " Nigger," 

Near the baked-potato shed, 
You may see a ghastly figure 

With three hats upon his head. 

When the evening shades are dusky. 

Then the phantom form draws near, 
And, with accents low and husky, 

Pours effluvium in your ear : 
Craving an immediate barter 

Of your trousers or surtout, 
And you know the Hebrew martyr, 

Once the peerless I. 0. U. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 79 



€\}t lmj[i!]tr nnli tjir (Tniiljrniir'H ffnuglitBt 

Did you ever hear the story — 

Old the legend is and true — 
How a knyghte of fame and glory 

All aside his armor threw ; 
Spouted spear and pawned habergeon, 

Pledged his sword and surcoat gay, 
Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board 

Sate and stitched the livelong day 1 

"Taylzeour! not one single shilling 

Does my breeches' pocket hold : 
I to pay am really willing, 

If I only had the gold. 
Farmers none can I encounter, 

Graziers there are none to kill ; 
Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, 

Bother not about thy bill." 

" Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often 
Have you tried that slippery trick ; 

Hearts like mine you cannot soften. 
Vainly do vou ask for tick. 



.80 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Christiaas and its bills are coming, 
Soon will they be showering in ; 

Therefore, once for all, my rum 'un, 
I expect you 'il post the tin. 

" j\[ark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe, 

In the palmer's amice brown ; 
He shall lead you unto jail, if 

Instantly you stump not dov/n." 
Deeply swore the young crusader, 

But the taylzeour would not hear ; 
And the gloomy bearded bayliffe 

Evermore kept sneaking near. 

" Neither groat nor maravedi 

Have I got my soul to bless ; 
And I feel extremely seedy, 

Languishing in vile duresse. 
Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, 

Take my steed and armor free. 
Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's, 

And ril work the rest for thee." 

Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, 

Lightly crooked his meanly limb, 
Lightly drove the glancing needle 

Through the growing doublet's rim. 
Gaberdines in countless number 

Did the taylzeour-knyghte repair ! 
And the cabbage and cucumber 

Were his sole and simple fare. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 81 

Once his weary task beguiling 

With a low and plaintive song, 
That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth 

Drove the hissing goose along ; 
From her lofty lattice window, 

Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, 
And she instantly discovered 

That her heart was not her own. 

" Canst thou love me, gentle stranger ?" 

Blushing like a rose she stood — 
And the knyghte at once admitted. 

That he rather thought he could. 
" He who weds me shall have riches, 

Gold, and lands, and houses free." 
" For a single pair of — sinall clothes, 

I would roam the world with thee !" 

Then she flung him down the tickets — 

Well the knyghte their import knew — 
" Take this gold, and win thy armor. 

From the unbelieving Jew. 
Though in garments mean and lowly, 

Thou wouldst roam the world with me, 
Only as a belted warrior, 

Stranger, will I wed with thee !" 

At the feast of good Saint Alban, 

Li the middle of the Spring, 

There was some superior jousting 

By the order of the king. 
4* 



83 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Valiant knyghtes !" exclaimed the monarch, 
" You will please to understand, 

He who bears himself most bravely, 
Shall obtain my daughter's hand." 

Well and bravely did they bear them, 

Bravely battled, one and all ; 
But the bravest in the tourney 

Was a warrior stout and tall. 
None could tell his name or lineage, 

None could meet him in the field. 
And a goose regardant proper 

Hissed along his azure shield. 

" Warrior, thou hast won my daughter !" 

But the champion bowed his knee, 
*' Princely blood may not be wasted 

On a simple knyghte like me. 
She I love is meek and lowly ; 

But her heart is high and frank ; 
And there must be tin forthcoming, 

That will do as well as rank." 

Slowly rose that nameless warrior. 

Slowly turned his steps aside. 
Passed the lattice whei-e the princess 

Sate in beauty, sate in pride. 
Passed the row of noble ladies, 

Hied him to an humbler seat. 
And in silence laid the chaplet 

At 'the taylzeour's daughter's feet. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 83 



€^t Bihigljt ^ml 



It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, 
His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was 

marked with gloom ; 
They said that St. Helena's Isle had rendered up its 

charge, 
That France was bristling high in arms, — the Emperor 

at large. 

'Twas midnight ! all the lamps were dim, and dull as 

death the street, 
It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his 

beat, 
When, lo ! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the 

stair, 
The door revolved upon its hinge, — Great Heaven! — 

What enters there 1 

A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn 

stride ; 
His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened 

wide : 



84 THK BOOK OF BALLADS. 

And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a 
star, — 

Saint George ! protect us ! 't is The JMan — the thunder- 
bolt of -war ! 

Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's 

ridge '? 
Are these the spurs of Austerlitz — the boots of Lodi's 

bridge ? 
Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet 

hive? 
What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive? 

Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was 

parched and dry, 
As in his l)rain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; 
AVhat ViOnder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet 

the glance 
Of him who reared, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon 

of France ? 

From the side-pocket of his vest, a pinch the despot 

took, 
Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look, — 
"Thou thought'^:^t the iion was a fir. but he hath burst 

the chain — 
The watchword thv to-night is France — the answer, St. 

Helcne. 

" And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, 

could bind 
The master of the universe — the monarch of mankind 1 ' 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 85 

I tell thee, fool ! the world itself is all too small for me, 
I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars — I burst them, and 
am free. 



" Thou think'st that England hates me 1 Mark !— This 

very night my name 
AVas thundered in its capital -svith tumult and acclaim ! 
They saw me, knew me, owned my power — Proud lord ! 

I say, beware ! 
There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do 

and dare ! 

"To-morrow, in thy very teeth, my standard will I rear — 
Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and 

shrink with fear ! 
To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly 

flames ; 
And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the 

Thames ! 

"Thou 'It seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak 

lordling, do thy worst? 
These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters 

they have burst. 
Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place ? Behold 't is 

written there ! 
And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they 

dare !*' 

Another pinch, another stride — he passes through the 

door — 
" Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor? 



80 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



And could that be the Emperor that moved before my 

eyes 1 
.Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper 
lies!" 

With trembling hands, Lord Castlereagh undid the mys- 
tic scroll, 

With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his 
soul — 

What's here ? — ' At Astley's, every night, the play of 
Moscow's Fall ! 

Napoleon for the thousandth time, by Mr. Gom3R3al !" 




THE BOOK OF BALLAD3. 87 



(t'jjB Intj nf tIjB lonrlnrtt. 

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission 

of the chair, 
I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. 

Whether 't was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of gin- 
ger beer, 

Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but J feel a little 
queer. 

Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, !pon my soul, 

this is too bad ! 
When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where 

I'm to be had.' 

Whew ! Tliis is a great relief now ! Let me but undo 

my stock. 
Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady 

like a rock. 

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes — 
Bless my heart, how very odd ! Why, surely there's a 
brace of moons ! 



88 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

See ! the stars ! how bright they twhikle, winking with 

a, frosty glare, 
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to 

despair. 

O, my cousin, spider-hearted ! Oh, my Amy ! No, 

confound it ! 
I must wear the mournful willow, — all around my hat 

I've bound it. 

Falser than the Bank of Fancy, — frailer than a shilling 

glove. 
Puppet to a fjither's anger, — minion to a nabob's love ! 

^ Is it well to wish thee happy ? Having known me, 
could you ever 
Stoop to man-y half a heart, and little more than half a 
liver? 

Happy ! Dam.me ! Thou shalt lower to his level day 
by day, 
^,^^^ Changing from the best of China to the commonest of 
clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is, — he is stomach-plagued 

and old ; 
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of 

his gold. 

When his feeble love is sated, he will liold thee surely 

then 
Something lower than his hookah, — something less than 

his cavenne. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 89 

What is this ? His eyes are pinky. Was't the daret ? 

Oh, no, no, — 
Bless your soul, it was the salmon, — salmon always 

makes him so. 

Take him to thy dainty chamber — soothe him with thy 

lightest fancies, 
lie will miclerstand thee, won't he? — pay thee with a 

lover's glances ? 

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest 

ophicleide. 
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. 

Sweet response, delightful music ! Gaze upon thy noble 

charge 
Till the spirit fdl thy bosom that inspired the meek 

Laffarge. 

Better thou wert dead before me, — better, better that I 

stood 
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel 

(rood ! 

Ik'tter, thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and 

dead. 
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial 

bed! 

Cursed be the bank of England's notes, that tempt the 

soul to sin ! 
Cursed be the want of acres, — doubly cursed the want 

of tin ! 



90 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul 

to greed ! 
Cursed he the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew 

the deed ! 

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees 

did earn ! 
Cursed be the clerk and parson, — cursed be the whole 
\ concern ! 



Oh, 't is well that I should bluster, — much I'm like to 

make of that ; 
Better comfort have 1 found in singing " All Around my 

Hat." . 

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British 

ears. 
'T will not do to pine for ever, — I am getting up in 

years. 

Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly 
press, 

And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretch- 
edness ? 

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I 

knew, 
When my days were all before me, and my years were 

twentv-two. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 91 

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quad- 
rant wide, 

With the many larks of London flaring up on every 
side. 

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might 

come. 
Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted 

thumb. 

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh 

heavens! 
Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at 

Evans' ! 

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears. 
Saw the glorious melo-drama conjure up the shades of 
vears } 



Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous 

feats again. 
Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy 

chain. 

Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the 

world in awe 
Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, 

spite of law. 

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's 
edge was rusted. 

And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis- 
gusted ! 



92 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care 

a curse 
Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the 

worse. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another 

jorum ; 
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear 

before 'em. 

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least, as go 

arrayed 
In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade. 

I '11 to x\fric. lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields 
Rarer robes and finer tissueUhan are sold at Spital- 
fields. 

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self 

aside, 
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval 

piide ; 

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava 

root. 
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden 

fruit. 

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the pwrple 

main 
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of 

Cockaigne. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 03 

There, inethinks, would be enjoyment, where no envtfous 

rule prevents ; 
Sink the steamboats ! cuss the railways ! rot, rot the 

Three per Cents ! 

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space 

to breathe, my cousin ! 
I will take some savage woman — nay, I '11 take at least 

a dozen. 

There I '11 rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street 

brats are reared : 
They shall dive for aligators, catch the wild goats by the 

beard — 

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced 

baboon, 
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of 

the Moon. 

« 

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily 

quaff, 
Kide a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. 

Fiercely shall I shout the war-who<>p, as some sullen 
stream he crosses, 

Startling from their noon-day slumbers, iron-bound rhino- 
ceroses. 

Fool ! again the dream, the fancy ! But I know my 

words are mad, 
For I hold the grey barbarian lov/er than the Christian 

cad. 



94 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

I the swell — the city daudy ! I to seek such horrid 
places, — 

I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and mon- 
key faces. 

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed — very 

near — 
To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shilli- 

beer ! 

Stuff and nonsense ! let me never fling a single chance 

away. 
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another 

maiden may. 

*' Morning Post," ("The Times" won't trust me) help 

me, as I know you can ; 
1 will pen an advertisement, — that 's a never-failing 

plan. 

"Wanted — By a bard in wedlock, some young inter- 
esting woman : 

Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forth- 
coming ! 

" Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken 

fetters, 
Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B. — You must pay 

the letters." 

That 's the sort of thing to do it. Now I '11 go and 

taste the balmy, — 
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin 

Amy ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 95 



Decked with shoes of blackest polish, 

And with shirt as white as snow, 
After matutinal breakfast 

To my daily desk I go ; 
First a fond salute bestowing 

On my Mary's ruby lips, 
Which, perchance, may be rewarded 

With a pair of playful nips. 

All day long across the ledger 

Still my patient pen I drive, 
Thinking what a feaf^t awaits me 

In my happy home at five ; 
In my small, one-storied Eden, 

Where my wife awaits my coming, 
And our solitary handmaid 

Mutton chops with care is crumbing. 

When the clock proclaims my freedom, 
Then my hat 1 seize and vanish ; 

Every trouble from ray bosom, 
Every anxious care I banish. 



96 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Swiftjj brushing o'er the pavement, 

At a furious pace 1 go, 
Till I reach my darlmg dwelling 

In the wilds of Pimlico. 

*'Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?" 

Thus I cry, while yet afar ; 
Ah ! what scent invades my nostrils ? — 

'T is the smoke of a cigar ! 
Instantly into the parlor 

Like a maniac I haste. 
And I find a young Life-Guardsman, 

With his arm I'ound Mary's waist. 

And his other liand is playing 

Most familiai-ly with hers ; 
And I think my Brussels carpet 

Somewhat damaged by his spurs. 
"Fire and furies! what the blazes?" 

Thus in frenzied wrath I call ; 
When my spouse her* arms upraises, 

With a most astounding squall. 

" Was there ever such a monster : 

Ever such a wretched M'Ife? 
Ah ! how long must I endure it : 

How protract this hateful life ? 
All day long quite unprotected, 

Does he leave his wife at hon^e ; 
And she cannot see her cousins. 

Even v,hen they kindlv come !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 97 

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising, 

Scarce vouchsafes a single word, 
But with look of deadly menace. 

Claps his hand upon his sword ; 
And in fear I faintly falter — 

" This your cousm, then he 's mine ! 
Very glad, indeed, to see you, — 

Won't you stop with us, and dine 1" 

Won't a ferret suck a rabbit ? — 

As a thing of course he stops ; 
And, with most voracious swallow 

Walks into my mutton chops. 
In the twinkling of a bed-post. 

Is each savoury platter clear. 
And he shows uncommon science 

In his estimate of beer. 

Half and-half goes down before him. 

Gurgling from the pewter-pot ; 
And he moves a counter motion 

For a glass of something hot. 
Neither chops nor beer I grudge him. 

Nor a moderate share of goes ; 
But I know not why he's always 

Treading upon Mary's toes. 

Evermore, when home returning, 

From the counting house I come, 

Do I find the young Life-Guardsman 

Smoking pipes and drinking rum. 
5 



9B THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Evermore he stays to dinner, 
Evermore devours my meal ; 

For I have a wholesome horror 
Both of powder and of steel. 

Yet I know he 's Mary's cousin, 

For my only son and heir 
Much resembles that young Guardsman, 

With the self-same curly hair ; 
But I wish he would not always 

Spoil my carpet with his spurs j 
And I 'd rather see his fingers 

In the fire, than touching hers. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 99 



€ljB (UnM -in fynxh 



AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD. 



It fell upon the August month, 

When landsmen bide at hame, 
That our gude Queen went out to sail 

Upon the saut-sea faem. 

And she has ta'en the silk and gowd, 

The like was never seen ; 
And she has ta'en the Prince Albert, 

And the bauld Lord Aberdeen. 

" Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington : 

Ye dauraa gang wi' me : 
For ye hae been ance in the land o' France, 

And that 's eneuch for ye." 

" Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel, 
To gather the red and the white monie ; 

And see that my men dinna eat me up 
At Windsor wi' their gluttonie." 



100 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, — 

A league, but barely twa, 
When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, 

And the wind began to blaw. 

" weel, weel may the waters rise, 

In welcome o' their Queen ; 
What gars ye look sae white, Albert ? 

What makes your e'e sae green 1" 

" My heart is sick, my heid is sair : 

Gie me a glass o' gude brandie : 
To set my foot on the braid green sward. 

I 'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. 

" It 's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare 
On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, 

But O, it 's ill to bear the thud 

And pitching o' the saut, saut sea !" 

And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed, 

Till England sank behind. 
And over to the coast of France 

They drave before the wind. 

Then up and spak the King o' France, 

Was birling at the wine ; 
" wha may be the gay ladye 

That owns that ship sae fine ? 

" And wha may be that bonny lad, 

That looks sae pale and wan 1 
I '11 wad my lands o' Picardie 

That he 's nae Englishman." 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 101 

Then up and spak an auld French lord, 

Was sitting beneath his knee, 
" It is the Queen o' braid England 

That's come across the sea." 

" And O an it be England's Queen, 

She's welcome here the day; 
1 'd rather hae her for a friend 

Than for a deadly fae. 

" Gae, kill the eerock in the yard. 

The auld sow in the stye, 
And bake for her t>he brockit calf, 

But and the puddock-pie !" 

And he has gane until the ship. 

As sune as it drew near. 
And he has ta'en her by the hand — 

" Ye 're kindly welcome here !" 

And syne he kissed her on ae cheek, 

And syne upon the ither ; 
And he ca'ed her his sister dear. 

And she ca'ed him her brither. 

" Light doun, light doun now, layde mine. 

Light doun upon the shore ; 
Nae English king has trodden here. 

This thousand years and more." 

" And gin I lighted on your land, 

As light fu' weel I may, 
O am I free to feast wi' you. 

And free to come and gae 1" 



102 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

And he has sworn by the Haly Rood, 
And the black staue o' Dumblane, 

That she is free to come and gae 
Till twenty days are gane. 

" I 've lippened to a Frenchman's aith," 

Said gude Lord Aberdeen ; 
" But I '11 never lippen to it again 

Sae lang 's the grass is green. 

" Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, 

Since better may na be ; 
The wee bit bairns are safe at hame, 

By the blessing o' Marie !" 

Then doun she lighted frae the ship, 

She lighted safe and sound ; 
And glad was our good Prince Albert 

To step upon the ground. 

" Is that your Queen, My Lord," she said, 

" That auld and buirdly dame ? 
I see the crown upon her heid ; 

But I dinna ken her name." 

And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen, 

And eke her daughters three. 
And gi'en her hand to the young Princess 

That louted upon the knee. 

And she has gane to the proud castle, 

That 's biggit beside the sea : 
But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame. 

The tear was in her e'e. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 103 

She gied the King the Cheshire cheese, 

But and the porter fine ; 
And he gied her the puddock-pies, 

But and the blude-red wine. 

Then up and spak the dourest prince, 

An Admiral was he ; 
"Let 's keep the Queen o' England here, 

Sin' better may na be ! 

" O mony is the dainty king 

That we hae trappit here; 
And mony is the English yerl 

That ^s in our dungeons drear!" 

" You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, 

Sae loud 's I hear ye lee ! 
There never yet was Englishman 

That came to skaith by me. 

" Gae out, gae out, ye fause traitor! 

Gae out until the street ; 
It 's shame that Kings and Queens should sit 

Wi' sic a knave at meat !" 

Then up and raise the young French lord, 

In wrath and hie disdain- — 
" O ye may sit, and ye may eat 

Your puddock-pies alane ! 

" But were I in my ain gude ship, 

And sailing wi' the wind. 
And did I meet wi' auld Napier, 

I 'd tell him o' my mind." 



104 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

O then the Queen leuch loud and lang, 
And her color went and came ; 

" Gin ye met wi' Charlie on the sea 
Ye 'd wish yersell at hame !" 

And aye they birlit at the wine, 

And drank right merrilie, 
Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, 

And the abbey bell struck three. 

The Queen she gaed until her bed, 

And Prince Albert likewise ; 
And the last word that gay ladye said 

Was — " O thae puddock-pies V 



PART II. 

The sun was high within the lift 
Afore the French King raise ; 

And syne he louped intil his sark, 
And warslit on his claes. 

" Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, 

Gae up until the toun ; 
And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, 

Be sure ye bring him doun." 

And he has met wi' the auld harper; 

O but his e'en were red ; 
And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees 

Was singing in his heid. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 105 

"Alack! alack!" the harper said, 

" That this should e'er hae been ! 
I daurna gang before my liege, 

For I was fou yestreen." 

" It 's ye maun come, ye auld harper : 

Ye daurna tarry lang ; 
The King is just dementit-like 

For wanting o' a sang." 

And when he came to the King's chamber, 

He loutit on his knee, 
" O what may be your gracious will 

Wi' an auld frail man like me ?" 

" I want a sang, harper," he said, 

" I want a sang richt speedilie ; 
And gin ye dinna make a sang, 

I '11 hang ye up on the gallows-tree." 

" I cannot do 't, my liege," he said, 
" Hae mercy on my auld gray hair ! 

But gin that I had got the words, 
I think that I might mak the air." 

" And wha 's to mak the words, fause loon, 
When minstrels we have barely twa ; 

And Lamartine is in Paris toun, 
And Victor Hugo far awaf 

" The deil may gang for Lamartine, 

And flie awa wi' auld Hugo, 

For a better minstrel than them baith 

Within this very toun I know. 
' 5* 



106 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" O kens my liege the gude Walter, — 
At hame they ca' him Bon GaultierI 

He '11 rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, 
And he is in the castle here." 

The French King first he lauchit loud, 
And syne did he begin to sing ; 

" My e'en are auld, and my heart is cauld, 
Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King. 

" Gae take to him this ring o' gowd. 
And this mantle o' the silk sae fine. 

And bid him mak a maister sang 

For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine." 

" I winna take the gowden ring, 

Nor yet the mantle fine : 
But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake, 

And for a cup of wine." 

The Queen v/as sitting at the cards. 

The King ahint her back ; 
And aye she dealed the red honors. 

And aye she dealed the black ; 

And syne unto the dourest Prince 
She spak richt courteouslie : — 

" Now will ye play, Lord Admiral, 
Now will ye play wi' me f 

The dourest prince he bit his lip, 
And his brow was black as glaur : 

" The only game that e'er I play 
Is the bluidy game o' war !" 



THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 107 

" And gill ye play at that, young man, 

It weel may cost ye sair ; 
Ye 'd better stick to the game at cards, 

For you '11 win nae honors there !" 

The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch, 

Till the tears ran blithely doun ; 
But the Admiral he raved and swore, 

Till they kicked him frae the room. 

The Harper came, and the Harper sang, 

And O but they were fain ; 
For when he had sung the gude sang twice. 

They called for it again. 

It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd, 

In the days of auld lang syne ; 
When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, 

Wi' his brither King to dine. 

And aye he harped, and aye he carped, 

Till up the Queen she sprang — 
" I '11 wad a County Palatine, 

Gude Walter made that sang." 

Three days had come, three days had gane, 

The fourth began to fa'. 
When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, 

" It 's time I was awa ! 

" O, bonny are the fields o' France, 

And saftly draps the rain ; 
But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, 

And greeting a' their lane. 



108 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Now ye maun come to me, Sir King, 

As I have come to ye ; 
And a benison upon your held 

For a' your courtesie ! 

" Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere : 

Ye sail na say me no ; 
And ye 'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare 

For your w^ily friend Guizot." 

Now he has ta'en her lily white hand, 

And put it to his lip, 
And he has ta'en her to the strand, 

And left her in her ship. 

"AY ill ye come back, sweet bird," he cried, 

" Will ye come kindly here, 
When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing. 

In the spring-time o' the year '?" 

" It 's I would blithely come, my Lord, 

To see ye in the spring ; 
It 's I would blithely venture back, 

But for ae little thing. 

" It is na that the winds are rude. 

Or that the waters rise. 
But I lo'e the roasted beef at hame, 

And no thae puddock-pies !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 109 



FROM THE GAELIC. 
I. 

Fhairston swore a feud 

Against the clan M'Tavish ; 
Marched into their land 

To murder and to rafish ; 
For he did resolve 

To extirpate the vipers, 
With four and-twenty men, 

And five-and-thirty pipers. 

II. 

But when he had gone 

Half-way down Strath Canaan, 
Of his fighting tail 

Just three were remainin'. 
They were all he had, 

To back him in ta battle ; 
All the rest had gone 

Off, to drive ta cattle. 



110 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

III. 

" Feiy coot !" cried Fhairshon, 

" So my clan disgraced is ; 
Lads, we '11 need to fight 

Pefore we touch the peasties. 
Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Coming wi' his fassals, 
Gillies seventy-three, 

And sixty Dhuinewassails !" 

IV. 

" Coot tay to you, sir ; ^ 

Are not you ta Fhairshon ? 
Was you coming here 

To visit any person ? 
You are a plackguard, sir ! 

It is now six hundred 
Coot long years, and more. 

Since my glen was plundered." 



Fat is tat you say ? 

Dar you cock your peaver ? 
J will teach you, sir. 

Fat is coot pehavior ! 
You shall not exist 

For another day more ; 
I will shot you, sir, 

Or stap you with my claymore !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 
VI. 

" I am fery glad 

To learn what you mentioiij 
Since I can prevent 

Any such intention." 
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Gave some warlike howls, 
Trew his skhian-dhu, 

An' stuck it in his powels. 

VII. 

In this fery way 

Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, 
Who was always thought 

A superior person. 
Fhairshon had a son, 

Who married Noah's daughter, 
And nearly spoiled ta Flood, 

By trinking up ta water. 

VIII. 

Which he would have done, 

I at least believe it. 
Had ta mixture peen 

Only half Glenlivet. 
This is all my tale : 

Sirs, I hope 't is new t' ye I 
Here 's your fery good healths, 

And tamn ta whusky tuty ! 



Ul 



112 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€^t '^^^nting ItnrkhrnkFr's 36rito. 

" O SWIFTLY speed the gallant bark !— 

I say, you mind my luggage, porter ! 
1 do not heed yon storm-cloud dark, 

I go to wed old Jenkin's daughter. 
I go to claim my own Mariar, 

The fairest flower that blooms in Harwich ; 
My panting bosom is on fire, 

And all is ready for the marriage." 

Thus spoke young Mivins, as he stepped 

On board the " Firefly," Harwich packet ; 
The bell rung out, the paddles swept 

Plish-plashing round with noisy racket. 
The lowering clouds young Mivins saw, 

But fear, he felt, was only folly ; 
And so he smoked a fresh cigar. 

Then fell to whistling — " Nix my dolly !" 

The wind it roared ; the packet's hulk 
Eocked with a most unpleasant motion ; 

Young Mivins leant him o'er a bulk, 
And poured his sorrows to the ocean. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 113 

Tints — blue and yellow — signs of wo — 
Flushed, rainbow-like, his noble face in, 

As suddenly he rushed below. 

Crying, " Steward, steward, bring a basin !" 

On sped the bark : the howling storm 

The funnel's tapering smoke did blow far ; 
Unmoved, young Mivins' lifeless form 

Was stretched upon a hair-cloth sofar. 
All night he moaned, the steamer groaned. 

And he was hourly getting fainter ; 
AVhen it came bump against the pier. 

And there was fastened by the painter. 

Young Mivins rose, and blew his nose. 

Caught wildly at his small portmanteau ; 
He was unfit to lie or sit. 

And found it difficult to stand, too. 
He sought the deck, he sought the shore, 

He sought the lady's house like winking. 
And asked, low tapping at the door, 

"Is this the house of Mr. Jenkini" 

A short man came — he told his name — 

Mivins was short — he cut him shorter, 
For in a fury, he exclaimed, 

" Are you the man as vants my darter ? 
Vot kim'd on you last night, young squire 1" 

" It was the steamer, rot and scuttle her !" 
" Mayhap it vos, but our Mariar, 

Valked off last night vith Bill the butler. 



114 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"And so you 've kim'd a post too late." 

" It was the packet, sir, miscarried I" 
" Vy, does you think a gal can vait 

As sets 'er 'art on being married 1 
Last night she vowed she 'd be a bride, 

And 'ave a spouse for vuss or better : 
So Bill struck in ; the knot vos tied, 

And now I vishes you may get her !" 

Young Mivins turned him from the spot, 

Bewilder'd with the dreadful stroke, her 
Perfidy came like a shot — 

He was a thunderstruck stockbroker. 
" A curse on steam and steamers too ! 

By their delays I 've been undone !" 
He cried, as, looking very blue, 

He rode a bachelor to London. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 115 



€to Tnttrratrs' €nuruBt[. 



BY THE HON. T B M A- 



[This and the five following poems were among those forwarded to 
the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitor^ for the Laureate- 
ship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they 
came in our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and 
ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, 
least of all the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own 
sonnet on the subject, is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, 
which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat. 

Bays, which in former days have graced the brow 

Of some, who lived and loved, and sung and died ; 

Leaves, that were gathered on the pleasant side 
Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough ; 
With palpitating hand I tal<e ye now. 

Since worthier minstrel there is none beside, 

And with a thrill of song half deified, 
I bind them proudly on my locks of snow, 
There shall they bide, till he who follows next, 

Of whom I cannot even guess the name. 
Shall by Court favor, or some vain pretext 

Of fancied merit, desecrate the same, — 
And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well 
As the sole bard who sang of "Peter Bell !] 



FYTTE THE FIRST. 

" What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news 

from southern land ? 
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand 1 



116 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

How does the little Prince of Wales — how looks our 

lady Queen ; 
And tell me, is the gentle Brough* once more at Windsor 



" I bring no tidings from the court, nor from St. Stephen's 

hall; 
I 've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the 

trumpet's battle call ; 
And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England 

ne'er hath seen. 
Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood 

on Bosworth Green. 

" He 's dead, he 's dead, the Laureate's dead !" 'Twas 

thus the cry began. 
And straightway every garret roof gave up its minstrel 

man ; 
Prom Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from 

Farringdon Within, 
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch 

din. 

Loud yelled they for Sir. James the Graham : but sore 

afraid was he ; 
A hardy knight were he that might face such a min- 

strelsie. 



* For the convenience of future commentators it may be mentioned, that the 
''gentle Brough" was the Monthly Nurse who attended her Majesty on the 
occasion of the birth of the Princess Royal. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 117 

"Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron saint, I 

swear, 
I 'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were 

here ! — 

" What is 't ye seek, ye rebel knaves, what make you 

there beneath *?" 
" The bays, the bays ! we want the bays ! we seek the 

laureate wreath ! 
We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons 

of song: 
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight — we may not 

tarry long !" 

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn — " Rare jest 

it were, I think. 
But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to 

drink ! 
An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 't is easy to be seen 
That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippo- 

crene. 

"Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thou- 
sand sheaves: 

Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred 
leaves 1 

Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they 
sustain 

The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust 
train ? 



118 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" No ! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the 

night, 
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly 

fight; 
To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in 

Spitalfields, 
And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die 

who yields !" 

Down went the window with a crash, — in silence and in 

fear 
Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor 

near ; 
Then up and spake young Tennyson — " Who 's here that 

fears for death? 
'T were better one of us should die, than England lose 

the wreath ! 

" Let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fight 

to-morrow ; — 
For armor bright we '11 club our mite, and horses we 

can borrow. 
'T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and 

German Dichters too. 
If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do /" 

" The lists of love are mine," said Moore, " and not the 
lists of Mars ;" 

Said Hunt, " I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com- 
bat's jars !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 119 

" I 'm old," quoth Samuel Rogers. — " Faith," says 

Campbell, " so am 1 !" 
"And I 'm in holy orders, sir !" quoth Tom of Ingoldsby. 

" Now out upon ye, craven loons !" cried Moxon, good 

at need, — 
" Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others 

bleed. 
I second Alfred's motion, boys, — let 's try the chance of 

lot; 
And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that 

goes to pot." 

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away — two hundred 

stayed to draw, — 
Now heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the 

longest straw ! 
'T is done ! 't is done ! And who hath won 1 Keep 

silence, one and all, — 
The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned 

Fitzball !" 



FYTTE THE SECOND. 

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly 

Spitalfields,— 
How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished 

helms and shields ! 
On either side the chivalry of England throng the 

green. 
And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen. 



120 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ,t 

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights 

appear, 
The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey 

Vere. 
" What ho, there, herald, blow the trump ! Let 's see 

w^ho comes to claim 
The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored 

name !" 

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head 

to heel. 
On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed 

in steel ; 
Then said our Queen — " Was ever seen so stout a knight 

and tall ? 
His name — his race V — " An 't please your grace, it is 

the brave Fitzball. 

" Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been 

shown. 
And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood 

is known. 
But see, the other champion comes !" — Then rung the 

startled air 
With shouts of " Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho ! the 

bard of Rydal 's there." 

And lo ! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a 

course, 
Appeared the honored veteran ; but weak seemed man 

and horse. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 121 

Then shook their ears the sapient peers, — " That joust 

will soon be done : 
My Lord of Brougham, I '11 back Fitzball, and give you 

two to one !" 

'' Done," quoth the Brougham, — " and done with you !" 

" Now, Minstrels, are you ready 1" 
Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, — " You 'd better 

both sit steady. 
Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge ! and forward 

to the fight !" 
" Amen !" said good Sir Aubrey Vere ; " Saint Schism 

defend the right !" 

As sweeps the blast against the mast, when blows the 
furious squall, 

So started at the trumpet's sound, the terrible Fitz- 
ball ; 

His lance he bore his breast before, — Saint George pro- 
tect the just, 

Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shame- 
ful dust ! 

" Who threw that calthrop 1 Seize the knave !" Alas 

the deed is done ; 
Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright 

Apollo's son. 
" Undo his helmet ! cut the lace ! pour water on his 

head !" 

" It ain't no use at all, my lord ; 'cos vy 1 the covey 's 

dead !" 

6 



122 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Above him stood the Rydal bard — his face was full of 

wo — 
" Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared 

a foe : 
A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in 

hall, 
Ne'er brought the upper gallery down, than terrible 

Titzball !" 

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen — she crowned 
him with the bays, 

And wished him many happy years, and many quarter- 
days,— 

And if you 'd have the story told by abler lips than 
mine, 

You 've but to call at Kydal Mount, and taste the 
Laureate's wine ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 123 



€^t Enpl fdU^tl 



BY THE HON. G- 



The Queen, she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly 

hall, 
And round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined 

nobles all ; 
There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary 

Peel, 
And at the bottom of the board, Prince Albert carved 

the veal. 

" What, pantler, ho ! remove the cloth ! Ho ! cellarer, 

the wine. 
And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brunswick's 

line!" 
Then rose, with one tumultuous shout, the band of 

British peers, 
" God bless her sacred Majesty ! Let 's see the little 

dears !" 



124 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 't was a touch- 
ing sight to see 

That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his 
knee; 

To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to 
gape 

With rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the 
grape ! 

They passed the wine, the sparkling wine — they filled 

the goblets up. 
Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on 

the cup ; 
And Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could 

appease. 
Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his 

knees. 

*' What want we here, my gracious liege," cried good 
Lord Aberdeen, 

" Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups 
between ? 

I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's 
warbling lay. 

But where 's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to- 
day 1" 

Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he 

cried, 
" Or art thou mad with wine. Lord Earl, or art thyself 

beside ? 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 125 

Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Lam'eate's 
vacant crown, 

And now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through Lon- 
don town !" 



"Now glory to our gracious Queen!" a voice was heard 
to cry, 

And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied 
eye; 

" Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious 
race, 

A boon, a boon, my sovran liege ! Give me the Lau- 
reate's place ! 

" 'T was I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of 

Navarre ; 
And who could swell the fame so w^ell of Britain's Isles 

afar'? 
The hero of a hundred fights — " Then Wellmgton up 

sprung, 
" IIo, silence in the ranks, I say ! Sit down, and hold 

your tongue. 

" By heaven thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling 

lay, 

Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye ! 
'T is hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot 

dine. 
Nurse, take her Royal Highness here ! Sir Robet, pass 

the wine !" 



126 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" No laureate need we at our board !" then spoke the 

Lord of Vaux ; 
" Here 's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel 

song, I know. 
Even I, myself — " Then rose the cry — " A song, a song 

from Brougham !" 
He sang, — and straightway found himself alone within 

the room. 



THE BOOK or BALLADS. 127 



C'ji^ 36nri nf €xWb tmml 



BY T M RE, ESQ. 

Oh, weep for the hours when the little blind boy- 
Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bowery 

When I dipp'd my light wings in the nectar of joy, 
And soar'd in the sunshine, the moth of the hour ! 

From beauty to beauty, I pass'd like the wind ; 
Now fondled the lily, now toy'd with the rose ; 

And the fair, that at morn had enchanted ray mind, 
^Vas forsook for another ere evening's close. 

I sighed not for honor, I cared not for fame, 

While Pleasure sat by me, and Love v/as my guest ; 
They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, 

And the bosom of beauty still pillowed my rest; 
And the harp of my country — neglected it slept — 

In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs ; 
From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept 

Its chord to the tale of her glories and wrongs. 



128 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

But weep for the hour ! — Life's summer is past, 

And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow ; 
And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, 

Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. 
No, its ashes are dead — and, alas ! Love or Song 

No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, 
Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong. 

And a seat by the fire tete-oAete with a friend. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 129 



€lje iCEErniti\ 



Who would not be 

The Laureate bold 
With his butt of sherry 
To keep him merry, 
And nothing to do but to pocket his gold 1 

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold ! 
When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, 
I 'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, 
With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. 
I 'd care not a pin for the w^aiting-lord ; 
But I 'd lie on my back on the smooth green sward, 
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest. 
And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, . 
And I 'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky. 
And watch the clouds as listless as I, 
Lazily, lazily ! 



ISO THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

And I 'd pick the moss and daisies white, 

And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; 

And I 'd let my fancies roam abroad 

In search of a hint for a birth-day ode, 
Crazily, crazily ! 
Oh, that would be the life fur me, 
With plenty to get and nothing to do. 
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, 
And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, 

Trance-somely, trance-somely, 
Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms. 
Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, 
Y/ith their saucy caps, and their crisped hair, 
And they 'd toss their heads in the fragrant air. 
And say to eacli otlier — " Just look down there. 
At the nice young man, so tidy and small, 
Who is paid for writing on nothing at all. 
Handsomely, handsomely !" 

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles. 
And crumpled up balls of the royal bills. 
Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun. 
As they 'd see me start, with a leap and a run, 
From the broad of my back to the point of my toes. 
When a pellet of paper hit my nose, 

Teazingly, sneezingly. 
Then I 'd fling them bunches of garden flowers. 
And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers ; 
And I 'd challenge them all to come down to me, 
And 1 'd kiss them all till they kissed me. 

Laughingly, laughingly. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 131 

Oh, would not that be a merry life, 
Apart from care, and apart from strife, 
With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, 
And no deductions at quarter-day ? 
Oh, that would be the post for me ! 
With plenty to get and nothing to do 
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, 
And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, 
And scribble of verses remarkably few, 
And at evening empty a bottle or two, 
Quaffingly, quaffingly ! 

'T is I would be 

The Laureate bold. 
With my butt of sherry 
To keep me merry, 
And nothing to do but to pocket my gold ! 



]32 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



a 3Jlikiglit 3tiAitiiitnii. 



Fill me once more the foaming pewter up ! 

Another board of oysters, ladye mine ! 
To-night Lnculhis with himself shall sup. 

These mute inglorious Miltons are divine ; 

And as I here in slippered ease recline, 
Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, 
I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. 

A nobler inspiration fires my brain, 

Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink ; 

I snatch the pot again and yet again, 

And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, 
Eill me once more, I say, up to the brink ! 

This makes strong hearts — strong heads attest its charm — 

This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny 
arm ! 

But these remarks are neither here nor there. 

Where was I ? Oh, I see — old Southey 's dead ! 
They '11 w^ant some bard to fill the vacant chair, 

And drain the annual butt — and oh, what head 

More fit with laurel to be garlanded 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. loi 

Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil. 
Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil ? 

I know a grace is seated on my brow, 

Like young Apollo's with his golden beams ; 

There should Apollo's bays be budding now : 
And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams 
That marks the poet in his waking dreams, 

When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, 

lie feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor. 

They throng around me now, those thinge^ of air. 
That from my fancy took their being's stamp : 

There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, 
There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp ; 
Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, 

Eoams through the starry wilderness of thought, 

Where all is everything, and everything is nought. 

Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won 

The gentle ear of pensive Madeline ! 
How love and murder hand in hand may run, 

Cemented by philosophy serene. 

And kisses bless the spot where gore has been ! 
Who breathed the melting, sentiment of crime, 
And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime ! 

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed 
Obscure philosophy's enchanting light ! 

Until the public, wildered as they read, 

Believed they saw that which was not in sight — 
Of course 't was not for me to set them right; 



134 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

For in my nether heart convinced I am, 
Philosophy 's as good as any other bam. 

Novels three-volmiied I shall write no more — 
Somehow or other now they will not sell ; 

And to invent new passions is a bore — 
I find the Magazines pay quite as well. 
Translating 's simple, too, as I can tell, 

Who 've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, 

And given the astonished bard a meanmg all my own. 

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are 
grassed ; 
Battered and broken are their early lyres. 
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, 

Warmed his young hands at Smithiield's martyr fires, 
And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. 
But these ai-e things w^ould suit me to the letter, 
For though this Stout is good, old Sherry 's greatly 
better. 

A fico for your small poetic ravers, 

Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these ! 

Shall they compete with him w^ho wrote " Maltravers," 
Prologue to " Alice or the Mysteries ?" 
No ! Even now, my glance prophetic sees 

My own high brow girt with the bays about. 

What ho, within there, ho ! another pint of Stout ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 135 



Ji!n!itgnin?n[« 



Like one who, waking from a troublous dream, 

Pursues with force his meditative theme ; 

Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still. 

Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill : 

Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen 

To rend his robes in agonies serene ; 

Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore 

To all that lived behind him, and before ; 

Calm as meek Calvin, vdien, with holy smile, 

He sang the mass around Servetus' pile, — 

So once agam I snatch this harp of mine. 

To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. 

Not now to whisper to the ambient air 

The sound of Satan's Universal Prayer ; 

Not now to sing in sweet domestic strife 

That woman reigns the Angel of our life ; 

But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, 

Whice thrills through Britain's universal heart, — 

That on this brow, with native honors graced, 

The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed ! 



136 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak ; 
Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek ! 
No gust of envy, no malicious scorn. 
Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. 
There are who move so far above the great, 
Their very look disarms the glance of hate ; 
Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold. 
Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. 
Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, 
Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. 
], who have bathed in bright Castalia's tide, 
By classic Isis and more classic Clyde ; 
I, who have handled in my lofty strain. 
All things divine, and many things profane; 
I, wdio have trod where seraphs fear to tread ; 
I, who on mountain' — honey dew have fed ; 
I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, 
And left no page for prophets to reveal ; 
I, who in shade portentous Dante threw ; 
I, who have done what Milton dared not do,— 
I fear no rival for the vacant throne ; 
No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own ! 

Let dark Macaulay chaunt his Roman lays^ 
Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the hny^, 
Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, 
Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, 
Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, 
Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell, 
Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves. 
Let Elliot shout for pork and penny loaves, — 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 137 

I care not, I ! resolved to stand or fall ; 
One down, another on, I '11 smash them all ! 

Back, ye profane ! this hand alone hath power 
To plnck the laurel from its sacred bower ; 
This brow alone is privileged to wear 
The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair ; 
These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, 
And make its mortal juice once more divine. 
Back, ye profane ! And thou, fair queen, rejoice : 
A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. 
Thus, then, I kneel where Spencer knelt before, 
On the same spot perchance, of Windsor's floor ; 
And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, 
The hallowed wreath from great Victoria's hand. 



138 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€!i? Drntl; cf $fm. 



[Why has Satan's own Laureate never given to tlie v\-orld his mar- 
vellous threnody on "The Death of Space ?" Who knows where 
the bays might have fallen, had lie forwarded that mystic manuscript 
to the Home Office ? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the 
public eye, the public v/ill pardon tlie boldness that tears from blush- 
ing obscurity, the following fragments of this unique poem.] 

Eternity shall raise her funeral pile 

In the vast dungeon of the extingnish'd sky, 

And, clothed in dim barbaric splendor, smile, 
And murmur shouts of elegiac joj. 

While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, 

And those that people all that dreary void, 

When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, 

Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoy'd. 

And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss. 

Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail, 

The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss. 
And lash the empyrean with his tail. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 139 

And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath, 
Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, 

And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, 
That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws. 

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last. 

Infinity shall creep into her shell. 
Cause and efl^ect shall from their thrones be cast, 

And end their strife with suicidal yell. 

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of Kings 
'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, 

Nonentity, on circumambient wings, 
An everlasting Phoenix shall arise. 



140 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



IMt 3flljir nEii tlje llA fim. 

A LAY OF SHERWOOD. 
FYTTE THE FIRST. 

The deer may leap within the glade ; 

The fawns may follow free — 
For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid 

Beneath the greenwood tree. 

And broken are his merry, merry men, 

That goodlie companie ; 
There 's some have ta'en the northern road 

With Jem of Netherbee. 

The best and bravest of the band 

With Derby Ned are gone ; 
But Earlie Gray and Charlie Wood, 

They staid with T^ittle John. 

Now Little John was an outlaw proud, 

A prouder ye never saw ; 
Through Nottingham and Leicester shires 

He thought his word was law, 
And he strutted through the greenwood wide 

Like a pestilent jack-daw. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 141 

He swore that none, but with leave of him, 

Should set foot on the turf so free : 
And he thought to spread his cutter's rule. 

All over the south countrie. 
" There 's never a knave in the land," he said, 

" But shall pay his toll to me !" 

And Charlie Wood was a taxman good 

As ever stepped the ground, 
He levied mail, like a sturdy thief. 

From all the veomen round. 
" Nay, stand !" quoth he, " thou shalt pay to me. 

Seven pence from every pound !" 

Now word has come to Little John, 

As he lay upon the grass. 
That a friar red was in merry Sherwood 

Without his leave to pass. 

" Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page ! 

Ben Hawes, come tell to me. 
What manner of man is this burly frere 

Who walks the wood so free !" 

" My master good !" the little page said, 

" His name I wot not well. 
But he wears on his head a hat so red, 

With a monstrous scallop-shell. 

" He says he is Prior of Copmanshm^st, 

And Bishop of London town. 
And he comes with a rope from our father, the Pope 

To put the outlaws down. 



142 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



" I saw him ride but yester-tide 
With his jolly chaplains three ; 

And he swears that he has an open pass 
From Jem of Netherbee !" 

Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, 

And broke it o'er his knee ; 
" Now I may never strike doe again, 

But this wrong avenged shall be ! 

" And has he dared, this greasy frere. 

To trespass in my bound, 
Nor asked for leave from Little John 

To range with hawk and hound 'i 

" And has he dared to take a pass 

From Jem of Netherbee, 
Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws 

Pertain of right to me ? 

*' were he but a simple man 

And not a slip-shod frere ! 
I 'd hang him up by his own waist-rope 

Above yon tangl'cd brere. 

" O did he come alone from Jem 
And not from our father the Pope, 

I 'd bring him in to Copmanshurst, 
With the noose of a hempen rope ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 143 

" But since he has come from our father the Pope, 

And sailed across the sea, 
And smce he has power to bind and loose, 

His life is safe for me ; 
But a heavy penance he shall do 

Beneath the greenwood tree!" 

" tarry yet," quoth Charlie Wood, 

" O tarry, master mine ! 
It 's ill to shear a yearling hog. 

Or twist the wool of swine ! 

" It 's ill to make a bonny silk purse 

From the ear of a bristly boar ; 
It 's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, 

When the way lies him before. 

" I 've w^alked the forest for twenty years, 

In wet weather and dry, 
And never stopped a good fellawe 

Who had no coin to buy. 

" What boots it to search a beggarman's bags 

When no silver groat he has ? 
So, master mine, I lede you w^ell, 

E'en let the Friar pass !" 

" Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, 

"Thou japest but in vain ; 
An he have not a groat within his pouch 

We may find a silver chain. 



144 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"But were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, 

As truly he may be, 
He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws 

Without the leave of me !" 

Little John has taken his arrows and bow, 
" His sw^ord and buckler strong, 
And lifted up his quarter-staff. 
Was full three cloth yards long. 

And he has left his merry men 

At the try sting-tree behind. 
And gone into the gay greenwood. 

This burly frere to find. 

O'er holt and hill, thro' brake and brere 

He took his way alone — 
Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear 

This geste of Little John. 



FYTTE THE SECOND. 

'T is merry, 't is merry in gay greenwood, 
When the little birds are singing. 

When the buck is bellhig in the fern 

And the hare from the thicket springing ! 

'T is merry to hear the waters clear 
As they splash in the pebbly fall ; 

And the ouzel whistling to his mate 
As he lights on the stones so small. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 145 

But small pleasaunce took little John 

In all he heard and saw ; 
Till he reached the cave of a hermit old 

Who wonned within the shaw. 



" Ora pro nobis /" quoth Little John — 

His Latin was somewhat rude — 
" Now, holy Father, hast thou seen 

A frere within the wood ? 

" By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose, 

I guess you may know him well ; 
And he wears on his head a hat so red. 

And monstrous scallop shell." 

" I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit said, 

" In this cell for thirty year. 
Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds, 

The face of such a frere ! 

" And if ye fnid him, master mine. 

E'en take an old man's advice, 
And raddle him well, till he roar again, 

Lest ye fail to meet him twice !" 

" Trust me for that !" quoth Little John — 
" Trust me for that !" quoth he with a laugh, 

"There never was man of woman born. 

That ask'd twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!" 

7 



146 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Then Little John, he strutted on, 

'Till he came to an open bound. 
And he was aware of a Red Friar 

Was sitting upon the ground. 

His shoulders they were broad and strong, 

And large was he of limb : 
Few yeomen in the north countrie 

Would care to mell with him. 



He heard the rustling of the boughs. 

As Little John drew near; 
But never a single word he spoke, 

Of welcome or of cheer. 

I like not his looks ! thought Little John, 

Nor his staff of the oaken tree. 
Now may our Lady be my help. 

Else beaten I well may be ! 

" What dost thou here, thou strong Friar, 

In Sherwood's merry round, 
Without the leave of Little John, 

To range with hawk and hound ?" 

" Small thought have I," quoth the Red Friar, 

" Of any leave, 1 trow. 
That Little John is an outlawed thief. 

And so, I ween, art thou ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 147 

"Know, 1 ani Prior of Copmanshiirst, 

And Bishop of London town, 
And I bring a rope from our father the Pope, 

To put the outlaws down." 

Then out spoke Little John in wrath, 

" I tell thee, burly frere, 
The Pope may do as he likes at home. 

But he sends no Bishops here ! 

" Up, and away. Red Friar !" he said, 

" Up, and away, right speedilie ; 
An it were not for that cowl of thine. 

Avenged on thy body I would be !" 

" Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, 
" And let my cowl no hindrance be ; 

I warrant that I can give as good 
As ever I think to take from thee !" 

Little John he raised his quarter-staff, 

And so did the burly priest, 
And they fought beneath the greenwood tree, 

A stricken hour at least. 

But Little John was weak of fence, 

And his strength began to fail. 
Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, 

Like the strokes of a threshing flail. 



148 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Now, hold thy hand," thou stalwart Friar, 

" Now rest beneath the thorn, 
Until I gather breath enow, 

For a blast at my bugle horn !" 

"I '11 hold my hand," the Friar said, 

" Since that is your propine, 
But, an you sound your bugle horn, 

I '11 even blow on mine !" 

Little John he wound a blast so shrill 

That it rung o'er rock and linn. 
And Charlie Wood and his merry men all 

Came lightly bounding in. 

The Friar he wound a blast so strong 
That it shook both bush and tree. 

And to his side came Witless Will 
And Jem of Netherbee ; 

With all the worst of Robin's band. 
And many a Rapparee ! 

Liltle John he wist not what to do, 

When he saw the others come ; 
So he twisted his quarter-staff between 

His fingers and his thumb. 

" There 's some mistake, good Friar !" he said, 
" There 's some mistake 'twixt thee and me ; 

I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, 
But not beneath the greenwood tree. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 149 

" And if you will take some other name, 
You shall have ample leave to bide ; 

With pasture also for your Bulls, 

And power to range the forest wide." 

"There 's no mistake !" the Friar said, 
" I '11 call myself just what I please. 

My doctrine is that chalk is chalk, 

And cheese is nothing else than cheese." 

"So be it then !" quoth Little John; 

"But surely you will not object, 
If I and all my merry men 

Should treat you with reserved respect ? 

" We can't call you Prior of Copmanshurst, 

Nor Bishop of London town, 
Nor on the grass, as you chance to pass, 

Can we very well kneel down. 

" But you '11 send the Pope my compliments. 

And say, as a further hint, 
That, within the Sherwood bounds, you saw 
Little John, who is the son-in-law 

Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint !" 

So ends this geste of Little John — 

God save our noble Queen ! 
But, Lordlings, say — is Sherwood now 

What Sherwood once hath been 1 



150 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€^t fx^mt nf lir Inunalnt %m][t. 



A LEGEND OF GLASGOW. 



BY MRS. E- 



There 's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the 
West, 
Where its bravest and its best find their grave. 
Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep 
In the waters still and deep, 

Not a wave ! 

And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed, and gray, and 
tall, 
Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond. 
And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, 
Makes a kind of tidal swell 

On the pond ! 

And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, 

With the odor of the hay floating by ; 
And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely 
ring. 
Chime by chime, ting by ting, 

Droppingly. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 151 

Then my thoughts went wandering hack on a very 
beaten track 
To the confine deep and black of the tomb, 
And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the 
grass, 
Where the dandelion has 

Such a bloom. 



Tlien I straightway did espy, with my slantly sloping 
eye, 
A carved stone hard by, somewhat woni ; 
And I read in letters cold — ^crc.lses.Hauncrlot.Sf.tiolD'e, 
K^ff.re.race.oS.Bosile.olti, 

esiassoto.ijovne. 



^e.fc)als,aiie."bal2Sunt.fetTSci)te.m5ist.t€rrii)le.fn.f5c5te. . ♦ 

Here the letters failed outright, but I knew 
That a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the Jordan's 
ford, 
Lay there beneath the sward, 

Wet with dew. 



Time and ti-de they passed away, on that pleasant sum- 
mer's day. 
And around me as I lay, all grew old : 
Sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of 
vapor brown 
No longer, like a crown, 

O'er it rolled. 



152 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Sank the great Saint Rollux stalk, like a pile of clingy 
chalk 
Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers. 
And a donjon keep arose, that might baffle any foes, 
With its men-at-arms in rows, 

On its towers. 

And the flag that flaunted there, showed the grim and 
grizzly bear, 
Which the Bogles always wear for their crest. 
And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, 
" Wake ye up ! my comrades all, 

From your rest ! 

*' For by the blessed rood, there 's a glimpse of armor good 
In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream ; 

And I hear the stifled hum, of a multitude that come, 
Though they have not beat the drum 

It would seem ! 

" Go teJl it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford 

With partizan and sword, just beneath ; 
IIo, Gilkison and Nares ! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs ! 

We '11 back the bonny bears 

To the death !" 

To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not. 
Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed ; 

On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, 
With his arms across him glued 

On his breast. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 153 

And he muttered " Foe accurst ! has thou dared to seek 
me first ? 
George of Gorbals, do thy worst — for I swear, 
O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my 
bride. 
From my undesevered side, 

Thou shalt tear ! 

" Ho ! herald mine, Brownlee ! ride forth, I pray and 
see. 
Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend ! 
Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish 
With his bloodhounds in the leash, 

Shall attend." 

Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and 
without. 
Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, 
Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding 
corse. 
He sank from off his horse 

On the plain ! 

Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart 

Neish, 

With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee. 

" Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight 

and lord. 

Thou caitiff thrice abhorred. 

Shame on thee! 
7* 



154 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Ho, bowmen, bend your bows ! Discharge upon the 
foes, 
Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts. 
Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, 
And a gallows for the slave 

Who revolts !" 



Ten days the combat lasted ; but the bold defenders 
fasted. 
While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host ; 
You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorba- 
liers. 
As at night they dressed the steers 

For the roast. 



And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin 
Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath ; 

In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief. 
Nor did Neish the spellword, beef, 

Dare to breathe. 



To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful 
dame. 
With the rosy evening flame on her face. 
She sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the 
ground, 
Who but little penance found. 

Saying grace ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 155 

And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his 
sword, 
" One short and little word may I speak 1 
I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, 
Or mark the sallow hue 

Of thy cheek ! 



" I know the rage and wrath that ray furious brother 
hath 
Is less against us both than at me. 
Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe 
An arrow from the bow. 

Like Brownlee !" 



" I would soil my father's name, I would lose my trea- 
sured fame, 
Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light : 
While I wear a belted brand, together still we 
stand, 
Heart to heart, hand to hand !" 

Said the knight. 



" All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his 
host 
Shall discover to their cost rather hard ! 
Ho, Provan ! take this key — hoist up the Malvoisie, 
And heap it, d' ye see, 

In the yard. 



15r> THE nOOK OV BALLADS. 

" Of usqiiebaugli and rum, you will find I reckon 
some, 
Besides the beer and mum, extra stout ; 
Go straightway to your tasks, and roil me all the 
casks. 
As also range the flasks, 

Just without, 

" If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their 
ears 
In the very inmost tiers of the drink. 
Let them win the outer-court, and hold it for their sport, 
Shice their time is rather short, 

I should think 1" 

With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge 
fell. 
Rushed the Gorbalicrs pell-mell, wild as Druids ; 
Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened 
and they swore, 
Till they stumbled on the floor, 

O'er the fluids ! 

Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage 

soldier drew 
- From his belt an iron screw, in his fist : 
George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to 
restrain, 
And indeed was rather fain 

To assist. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 157 

With a beaker in his hand, in the micTst he took his 
stand, 
And silence did command all belo\Y — 
" Ho ! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, 
In the centre of thy hold, 

Pledge me now ! 



"Art surly, brother mine ? In this cup of rosy 
wine, 
I drink to the decline of thy race ! 
Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, 
Never more shall setting sun 

Gild thy face ! 



"The pilgrim in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, 

Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up. 
And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging 
high ! 
What, brother ! art thou dry ? 

Fill my cup !" 



Dunib as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard 
hlin not, 
But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore : 
And Sir Roderick Dalgleish, remarked aside to 
Neish, 
" Never sure did thirsty fish 

Swallow more !" 



158 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel 's scarce 
begun, 
It were knightly sport and fun to strike in !" 
"Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the 
rum — 
They are working at the mum. 

And the gin !" 

Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier 

Twenty castles dancing near, all around, 
The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them 
quake, 
And sinuous as a snake 

Moved the ground. 

Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to 
some, 
But all agreed the rum was divine. 
And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly 
born. 
Who preferred to fill his horn 

Up with wine ! 

Then said Launcelot the tall, " Bring the chargers from 
their stall ; 
Lead them straight unto the hall, down below : 
Draw your weapofis from your side, fling the gates 
asunder wide, 
And together we shall ride 

On the foe !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 159 

Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his 
selle, 
That few would 'scape to tell how they fared, 
And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, 
Looked terrible as bears, 

All prepared. 

With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinew- 
ed Neish, 
And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright — 
" Now, w^ake the trumpet's blast ; and, comrades, follow 
fast; 
Smite them down unto the last !" 

Cried the knight. 

In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and 
yell, and shout. 
As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. 
On the miserable kerne, fell the death-strokes stiff and 
stern, 
As the deer treads down the fern, 

In the vale ! 

Saint Mungo be my guide ! It was goodly in that 
tide 
To see the Bogle ride in his haste ; 
He accompanied each blow, with a cry of "Ha!" or 
"Ho!" 
And always cleft the foe 

To the waist. 



160 THE EOOK OF BALLADS. 

" George of Gorbals — crriven lord ! thou didst threat me 
with the cord, 
Come forth and brave my sword, if yon dare !" 
But he met with no reply, and never could descry 
The glitter of his eye 

Anywhere. 



Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers wer( 
down, 
Like a field of barley mown in the ear : 
It had done a soldier good, to see how Pro van stood, 
With Neish all bathed in blood. 

Pan tin a; near. 



"Now ply ye to your tasks — go carry down those 
casks. 
And place the empty flasks on the floor. 
George of Gorbals scarce will come, vrith trumpet and 
with drum. 
To taste our lieer and rum 

Any more ! 



So they plied them to their tasks, and they carried down 
the casks, 
And replaced the empty flasks on the floor ; 
But pallid for a week was the cellar master's cheek, 
For he swore he heard a shriek 

Through the door. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 161 

When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent 
its flame 
To the face of squire and dame in the hall, 
The cellarer went down to tap October brown, 
Which was rather of renown 

'Mongst them ail. 

lie placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a bloY>^. 

But his liquor would not flow through the pin. 
"Sure, 't is sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it 
with his knuckles. 
But a sound as if of buckles, 

Clashed within. 

" Bring a hatchet, varlets, here !" and they cleft the 
cask of beer ; 
W^hat a spectacle of fear met their sight ! 
There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched 
and grey. 
In the arms he bore the day 

Of the fight ! 

1 have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, 
Though the moral ye may fail to perceive, 

Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust. 
And now, I think, I must 

Take my leave ! 



162 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



[AiK— " The days we went a gipsying."] 



I WOULD all womankind were dead, 

Or banished o'er the sea ; 
For they have been a bitter plague 

These last six weeks to me : 
It is not that I 'm touched myself, 

For that I do not fear ; 
No female face hath shown me grace 
For many a bygone year. 

But 't is the most infernal bore, 

Of all the bores I know, 
To have a friend who 's lost his heart 
A short time ago. 

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, 

Or down to Greenwich run, 
To quaff the pleasant cider cup, 

And feed on fish and fun ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 163 

Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, 

To catch a breath of air : 
Then, for my sins, he straight begins 
To rave about his fair. 

Oh, 't is the most tremendous bore, 

Of all the bores I know, 
To have a friend ^Yho 's lost his heart 
A short time asjo. 

In vain you pour into his ear 
Your own confiding grief; 
In vain you claim his sympathy, 

In vain you ask relief; 
In vain you try to rouse him by 

Joke, repartee, or quiz ; 
His sole reply 's a burning sigh, 
And " What a mind it is !" 

O Lord ! it is the greatest bore, 

Of all the bores I know, 
To have a friend who 's lost his heart 
A short time ago. 

I've heard her thoroughly described 

A hundred times, I 'm sure ; 
And all the while I 've tried to smile, 

And patiently endure ; 
He waxes strong upon his pangs. 

And potters o'er his grog ; 
And still I say, in a playful way — 

" Why you 're a lucky dog !" 



164 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

But oh ! it is the heaviest bore, 
Of all the bores I know, 

To have a friend who's lost his heart 
A short time ago. 

I really wish he'd do like me 

When I was young and strong ; 
I formed a passion every week, 

But never kept it long. 
But he has not the sportive mood 

That always rescued me, 
And so I would all women could 
Be banished o'er the sea. 

For 't is the most egregious bore, 

Of all the bores I know, 
To have a friend who's lost his heart 
A short time ago. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 165 



/rfmrmE Sh llimini. 



TO BOX GAULTIER. 



AKGUiiEXT. — All impassioued pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bou 
Guultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences 
thus.] 



DiDST thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, 
Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, 
With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, 
Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness ? 
Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, 
Our heads went crosswise in the country dance ; 
How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, 
Trembled within the squeezhig of thy palm ; 
And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise 
At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes ? 
Ah, me ! that night there was one gentle thing. 
Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, 
Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering ! 



166 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

There 's wont to be, at conscious times like these, 
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, — 
A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare 
Describe the swaling of a jaunty air ; 
And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel. 
You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, 
That smiling voice, although it made me start, 
Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart ; 
And, picking at my flowers, I said with free 
And usual tone, " Oh yes, sir, certainly !" 

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, 

I heard the music burning in my ear, 

And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, 

If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. 

So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came. 

And took his place against us with his dame, 

I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk 

From the stern survey of the soldier-monk. 

Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk ; 

But threading through the figure, first in rule, 

I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. 

Ah, what a sight was that "? Not prurient Mars, 
Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars — 
Not young Apollo, beamily array 'd 
In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade — 
Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth. 
Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, 
Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong, 
. As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 167 

How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love 
On thy trim velvet doublet laced above ; 
The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, 
Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver ! 
So bare was thy line throat, and curls of black 
So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back, 
So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet. 
So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, 
That my weak soul took instant flight to thee. 
Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery ! 

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm, 

(The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm,) 

We pass'd into the great refreshment hall. 

Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small 

Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn 

Around the margin of the negus urn ; 

When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, 

And, with enquiring accents, whisper'd " Ice, 

Water, or cream ?" I could no more dissemble, 

But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. 

A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain. 

The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne, 

The custards fell untouched upon the floor. 

Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more ! 



168 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



'^t (PaM's Siiugljtrr. 

A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS. 

How beauteous is the star of night 

"Within the eastern skies, 
Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance, 

Or the antelope's azure eyes ! 
A lamp of love in the heaven above, 

That star is fondly streaming ; 
And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque 

In the Golden Horn are gleaming. 
Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower. 

And she hears the bulbul sing. 
As it thrills its throat to the first full note, 

That anthems the flowery spring. 
She gazes still, as a maiden will, 

On that beauteous eastern star : 
You might see the throb of her bosom's sob 

Beneath the white cymar ! 

She thinks of him who is far away, — 

Her own brave Galiongee, — 
Where the billows foam and the breezes roam. 

On the wild Carpathian sea. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 169 

She thinks of the oath that bound them both 

Beside the stormy water ; 
And the words of love, that in Athens' grove 

He spake to the Cadi's daughter. 

"My Selim !" thus the maiden said, 

" Though severed thus we be, 
By the raging deep and the mountains' steep, 

My soul still yearns to thee. 
Thy form so dear is mirror'd here 

In my heart's pellucid well, 
As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, 

Or the moth to the gay gazelle. 

" I think of the time, when the Kaftan's crime 

Our love's young joys o'ertook, 
And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes • 

Of my silver-toned chibouque. 
Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed. 

Thy soul it is heavy laden ; 
Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower ; 

Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden !" 

A light step trode on the dewy sod. 

And a voice was in her ear. 
And an arm embraced young Leila's waist — 

" Beloved ! I am here !" 
Like the phantom form that rules the storm, 

Appeared the pirate lover. 

And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, 

As he fondly bent above her. 
8 



170 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Speak, Leila, speak ! for my light caique 

Rides proudly in yonder bay ; 
I have come from my rest to her I love best,. 

To carry thee, love, away. 
The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover 

My own jemscheed from harm ; 
Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier, 

Or the mufti's vengeful arm 1 

" Then droop not, love, nor turn away 

From this rude hand of mine !" 
And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, 

And murmured — " I am thine !" 
But a gloomy man with a yataghan 

Stole through the acacia blossoms. 
And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade 

Had pierced through both their bosoms. 

*' There ! there ! thou cursed caitiff Giaour ! 

There, there, thou false one, lie !" 
Remorseless Hassan stands above, 

And he smiles to see them die. 
They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, 

The lover and the lady — 
And the maidens wail to hear the tale 

Of the daughter of the Cadi ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 171 



f HstBtii iBr^tmie. 



The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, 

And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool ; 

The voice of the musnud is heard from the west, 

And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest, 

The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, 

And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore. 

Where art thou, my beauty ; where art thou, my bride? 

Oh, come and repose by the dragoman's side ! 

I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik — 

I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. 

But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true. 

Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu ! 

Oh, wake thee, my dearest ! the muftis are still. 

And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill ; 

No sullen aleikoum — no derveesh is here. 

And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere! 

Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, 

I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul ! 



172 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

I see thee — I hear thee — thy antelope foot 
Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot ; 
The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, 
And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. 
Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, 
My dove ! my phingari ! my gentle gazelle ! 

Nay, tremble not, dearest ! I feel thy heart throb, 
'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub ; 
Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star ! 
Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar : 
Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier. 
Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear '? 

Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss ! 
And sweeter than balm of Gehenna, thy kiss ! 
Wherever I wander — wherever I roam, 
My spirit flies back to its beautiful home : 
It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, 
With thee, my adored one ! my own attar-gul ! 




THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 173 



CljB Srntlj nf Mnl 



-TH, ESQ. 



Mefhinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely 
than the nosegay in his hand ! I hear the crowd extolling his re- 
solution and intrepidity ! What volleys of sighs are sent from 
the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought 
to disgrace ! I see him at the tree ! the whole circle are in tears ! 
even butchers weep I" — Begg^vp.'s OpepvA. 



A LIVING sea of eager human faces, 

A thousand bosoms, throbbing all as one, 

Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, 
Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun : 
Through the hushed groups low buzzing murmurs run ; 

And on the air, with slow reluctant swell, 

Comes the dull funeral boom of old Sepulchre's bell. 

Oh, joy in London now ! in festal measure 
Be spent the evening of this festive day ! 

For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure 
Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they 
Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away ! 

A little while, and he, the brave Duval, 

Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all. 



174 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"Why comes he not 1 say, wherefore doth he tarry '?" 
Starts the enquiry loud from every tongue. 

*' Surely," they cry, " that tedious Ordinar}^ 

His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung, — 
Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung !" 

But hark ! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. 

" He comes, he comes !" A thrill shoots through each 
gazer's heart. 

Join'd in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, 
All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. 
" He comes, he comes !" and every breast rejoices, 
As down Snow HiJl the shout tumultuous came. 
Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. 
" He comes, he comes !" and each holds back his 

breath, — 
Some ribs are broke and some few scores are crush'd to 
death. 



With step majestic to the cart advances 

The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. 

He feels that on him now are fix'd the glances 
Of many a Britain bold and maiden sweet, 
W^hose hearts responsive to his glories beat. 

In him the honor of " The Road" is centred. 

And all the hero's fire into his bosom enter'd. 

His was the transport — his the exultation 

Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, 
Up to the Capitol, in the ovation. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 175 

They bore with them in the triuraphal car, 

Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. 
lo Triumjyhe ! They forgot their clay. 
E'en so Duval who rode in glory on his way. 



His laced cravat, his kids of ]3urest yellow, 
The many-tinted nosegay in his hand, 

His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, 
Like the old vintages of Spanish land. 
Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, 

Subdue all hearts ; and, as up Holborn's steep 

Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep. 



He saw it, but he heeded not. His story, 
He knew, was graven on the page of Time. 

Tyburn to him was as a field of glory, 

Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, 
Hymn'd in full many an elegiac rhyme. 

He left his deeds behind him, and his name — 

For he, like Cassar, had lived long enough for fame. 



He quail'd not, save when, as he raised the chalice, — 
St. Giles's bowl, — filled with the mildest ale, 

To pledge the crowd, on her — his beauteous Alice — 
His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. 
She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale. 

She, whom he fondly deem'd his own dear gii'l. 

Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of 
purl. 



176 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

He bit his lip — it quiver'd but a moment — 
Then pass'd his hand across his flashing brows : 

He could have spared so forcible a comment 
Upon the constancy of woman's vows. 
One short, sharp pang his hero-soul allows ; 

But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, 

And on his pilgrim-course went calmly forth again. 

A princely group of England's noble daughters 

Stood in a balcony suffused with grief. 
Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, 

And waving many a snowy handkerchief. 

Then glow'd the prince of highwayman and thief! 
His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam : — 
That woman could be false was but a mocking dream. 

And now, his bright career of triumph ended, 
His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. 

The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, 
And fix'd the hempen bandages, w^hile he 
Bow'd to the throng^ then bade the car go free. 

The car roll'd on, and left him dangling there 

Like famed Mahommed's tomb, uphung midway in air. 

As droops the cup of the surcharged lily 
Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, 

Or the soft petals of the daffodilly. 
When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, 
So drooped his head upon his nianly form, 

While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. 

He hung the stated time, and then they cut hhn down. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 177 

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, 
Just as the J found him, nightcap, rope, and all, 

And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, 
Among the otomies in Surgeon's Hall : 
"These are the Bones of the renown'd Duval!" 

There still they tell us, fi'om their glassy case. 

He was the last, the best of all that noble race ! 



8* 



178 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€k BirgB nf tlj^ Sriutor. 



ESQ. 



Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tum- 
bler down ; 
He has dropp'd — that star of honor — on the field of his 

renown ! 
Eaise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your 

knees. 
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you 

please. 
Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, 
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half 

with drink ! 
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from ofi" the floor ; 
See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail 

in door! 
Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd ; w^here the drink 

most freely flow'd, 
I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker 

strode. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 179 

Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy- 
wet, 
By the fountains of Damascus I have c[uaff'd the ric) 

Sherbet, 
Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, 
On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my 

hock; 
I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er 

Monsoon, 
Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the 

Moon ; 
In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danes- 
man blind, 
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth 

declined ; 
Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the 

planter's rum. 
Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels, till each gibbering 

Gael grew dumb ; 
But a stouter, bolder drinker — one that loved his liquor 

more — 
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the 

floor! 
Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, 
He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd — let the rest of us 

beware ! 
We shall leave him, as we found him, — -lying where his 

manhood fell, 
'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple 

well. 



180 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Better 't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat 

and bosom bare, 
Pulled his Hobies off, and tiirn'd his toes to taste the 

breezy air. 
Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the 

gas, 
Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we 

pass, 
We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, 

near and handy, 
Large supplies of soda water, tumbler's bottomed well 

with brandy. 
So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless 

thirst of his, 
Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un a& 

he is I 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 181 



Sam /rrkgack. 

When folks with headstrong passion blind, 

To play the fool make up their mind, 

They 're sure to come with phrases nice, 

And modest air, for your advice. 

But, as a truth unfailing make it. 

They ask, but never mean to take it, 

'T is not advice they want, in fact, 

But confirmation in their act. 

Now mark what did, in such a case, 

A worthy priest who knew the race. 

A dame more buxsome, blithe and free. 
Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. 
So smart her dress, so trim her shape, 
Ne'er hostess oifer'd juice of grape. 
Could for her trade wish better sign ; 
Her looks gave flavor to her wine. 
And each guest feels it, as he sips. 
Smack of the ruby of her lips. 
A smile for all, a welcome glad, — 
A jovial coaxing way she had ; 



182 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

And, — what was more her fate than "blame, — 

A nine months' widow was our dame. 

But toil was hard, for trade was good, 

And gallants sometimes will be rude. 

" And what can a lone woman do 1 

The nights are long, and eerie too. 

Now, Guillot there 's a likely man. 

None better draws or taps a can ; 

He 's just the man, I think, to suit. 

If I could bring my courage to 't." ' 

With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd : 

The dame, they say, who doubts is lost. 

" But then the risk ? I'll beg a slice 

Of Father Raulin's good advice." 

Prankt in her best, with looks demure, 
She seeks the priest ; and, to be sure, 
Asks if he thinks she ought to wed : 
" "With such a business on my head, 
I 'm worried off my legs with care. 
And need some help to keep things square. 
I 've thought of Guillot, truth to tell ! 
He 's steady, knows his business well. 
What do you think 1" When thus he met her 
" Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better !" 
" But then the danger, my good pastor. 
If of the man I make the master. 
There is no trusting to these men." 
" Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!" 
" But help I must have, there 's the curse. 
I may go farther and fare worse." 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 183 

" Why, take him then !" " But if he should 

Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good, — 

In drink and riot waste my all, 

And rout me out of house and halll" 

" Don't have him, then ! But I 've a plan 

To clear your doubts, if any can. 

The bells a peal are ringing, — hark ! 

Go straight, and what they tell you mark. 

If they say ' Yes !' wed, and be blest — 

If ' No,' why — do as you think best." 

The bells rung out a triple bob : 
Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, 
As thus she heard their burden go, 
"Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot !" 
Bells were not then left to hang idle : 
A week, — and the rang for her bridal. 
But, woe the while, they might as well 
Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. 
The rosy dimples left her cheek. 
She lost her beauties plump and sleek ; 
For Guillot oftener kicked than kiss'd 
And back'd his orders with his fist, 
Proving by deeds as well as words. 
That servants make the worst of lords. 

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, 
And speaks as angry women speak. 
With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, 
Cursing the hour she took his telling. 



184 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

To all, his calm reply was this, — 
" I fear you 've read the bells amiss. 
If they have led you wrong in aught, 
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. 
Just go, and mark well what they say." 
Off trudged the dame upon her way, 
And sure enough their chime went so, — 
" Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot !" 

" Too true," she cried, " there 's not a doubt 
What could my ears have been about !" 
She had forgot, that, as fools think, 
The bell is ever sure to clink. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 185 



€ljB Sjntlj nf SHJjma?!, 



[This and the six following poems are examples of that new achieye- 
ment of modern song — which, blending the iitile with the dulce, 
symbolizes at once the practical and spiritual characteristics of 
the age, — and is called familiarly " the puff poetical."] 



Died the Jew 1 " The Hebrew died. 

On the pavement cold he lay, 
Around him closed the living tide ; 

The butcher's cad set down his tray : 
The pot-boy from the Dragon Green 

No longer for his pewter calls ; 
The Nereid rushes in between, 

Nor more her ' Fine live mackerel !' bawls. 

Died the Jew '? " The Hebrew died. 

They raised him gently from the stone, 
They flung his coat and neckcloth wide — 

But linen had that Hebrew none. 
They raised the pile of hats that pressed 

His noble head, his locks of snow ; 
But, ah, that head, upon his breast, 

Sank dowTi with an expiring ' Clo !' " 



186 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Died the Jew 1 " The Hebrew died, 

Struck with overwhelming qualms, 
Trom the flavor spreading wide 

Of some fine Virginia Hams. 
Would you know the fatal spot, 

Fatal to that child of sin ^ 
These fine-flavored hams are bought 

At 50, BisHOPSGATE Within !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 187 



f nrr's m fills. 



'T WAS in the town of Lubeck. 

A hundred years ago, 
An old man walk'd into the church 

With beard as white as snow ; 
Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, 

Nor dim his eagle eye : 
There's many a knight that steps the street, 
Might wonder, should he chance to meet 

That man erect and high ! 

When silenced was the organ. 

And hush'd the vespers loud, 
The Sacristan approached the sire. 

And drew him from the crowd — 
" There's something in thy visage. 

On which I dare not look, 
'And when I rang the passing bell, 
A tremor that I may not tell, 

My very vitals shook. 



188 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Who art thou, awful stranger 1 

Our ancient annals say, 
That twice two hundred years ago 

Another passed this way, 
Like thee in face and feature ; 

And, if the tale be true, 
'T is writ, that in this very year 
Again the stranger shall appear. 

Art thou the wandering Jew f 

" The wandering Jew, thou dotard !" 

The wondrous phantom cried — 
'T is several centuries ago 

Since that poor stripling died. 
He would not use my nostrums — 

See, shaveling, here they are ! 
These put to flight all human ills, 
These conquer death — unfailing pills, 

And I 'm the inventor, Parr !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 189 



Gingerly is good King Tarqiiin shaving, 

Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, 
Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, 
And with nasal whine he pitches in 
Church Extension hints, 
Till the monarch squints, 
Snicks his chin, and swears — a deadly sin ! 

" Jove confound thee, thou bare-legg'd impostor ! 

From my dressing-table get thee gone ! 
Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster 1 
There again ! That cut was to the bone ! 
Get ye from my sight ; 
I '11 believe you 're right 
When my razor cuts the sharping hone !" 

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness ; 

But the Augur, eager for his fees. 
Answered — " Try it, your Imperial Highness, 

Press a little harder, if you please. 



190 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

There ! the deed is done !" 
Through the solid stone 
Went the steel as glibly as through cheese. 

So the Augur touch'd the tin of Tarquin, 

Who suspected some celestial aid : 
But he wronged the blameless Gods ; for hearker 
Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, 
With his seaching eye 
Did the priest espy 
RoDGERs' name engraved upon the blade. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 191 



ta Mml i'lrtlittt. 



NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON. 



Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, 
Through which the fountain of his life runs dry, 
Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. 
A roughening wind was bringing in the waves 
With cold, dull plash and plunging to the shore, 
And a great bank of clouds came sailing up 
Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon. 
Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, 
With a short stagger, senseless on the stones. 

No man yet knows how long he lay in swound ; 
But long enough it was to let the rust 
Lick half the surface of his polished shield ; 
For it was made by far inferior hands 
Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, 
Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore 
The magic stamp of Mechi's Silver Steel. 



192 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



Sttpitrr nEi tjiB Mian 3 it 



" Take away this clammy nectar !" 

Said the king of gods and men ; 
" Never at Olympus' table 

Let that trg-sh be Served again. 
Ho, Lyseus, thou, the beery ! 

Quick — invent some other drink ; 
Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest 

On Cocytus' sulphury brink !" 

Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus, 

Paly grew his pimpled nose, 
And already in his rearward 

Felt he Jove's tremendous toes ; 
When a bright idea struck him — 

" Dash my thyrsus ! I '11 be bail — 
For you never were in India — 

That you know not Hodgson's Ale !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



198 



"Bring it !" quoth the Cloud-compeller; 

And the wine-god brought the beer — 
" Port and Claret are like water 

To the noble stuff that's here !" 
And Saturnius drank and nodded, 

Winking with his lightning eyes ; 
And amidst the constellations 

Did the star of Hodgson rise! 




194 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



Coats at five-and-forty sldllings ! trousers ten-and-six a 
pair ! 

Summer waistcoats, three a sovereign, light and comfort- 
able M' ear ! 

Taglionis, black or colored, Chesterfield and" velveteen ! 

The old English shooting-jacket, — doeskins, such as ne'er 
were seen ! 

Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost ! 

Do you w^ant an annual contract 1 Write to Doudney's 
by the post. 

DouDNEY Brothers ! Doudney brothers ! Not the 
men that drive the van, 

Plaster'd o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry 
plan, 

How, by base mechanic measure, and by pinching of 
their backs. 

Slim attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their 
Income-tax : 

But the old established business — where the best of 
clothes are given 

At the very lowest prices — Fleet-street, Number Ninety- 
seven. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 195 

Would'st thou know the works of Doudney 1 Hie thee 
to the thronged Arcade, 

To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. 

There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of 
the steel, 

When the household troops in squadrons round the bold 
field-marshals wheel, 

Should'st thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morn- 
ing frock, 

Peering at the proud battalion o'er the margin of his 
stock, — 

Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the vete- 
ran, worn an gray, 

Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of 
Assay e — 

Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb 
he wears 

Started into shape and being from the Doudney Bro- 
thers' shears ! 

Seek thou next the rooms of Willis — mark, where 
D'Orsay's Count is bending, 

See the trousers' undulation from his graceful hip 
descending ; 

Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love- 
compelling 1 

Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the 
DouDNEYs' dwelling. 

Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice 
enchants the ear 1 

" Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat ? Oh, who made 
it, Albert, dear 1 



196 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

'T is the very prettiest pattern ! You must get a dozen 

others !" 
And the Prince, in rapture, answers — " 'T is the work 

of DouDNEY Brothers !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 197 



As the youthfal Paris presses 

Helen to his ivory breast, 
Sporting with her golden tresses, 

Close and ever closer pressed, 

He said : " So let me quaff the nectar, 
Which thy lips of ruhy yield ; 

Glory I can leave to Hector, 
Gathered in the tented field. 

" Let me ever gaze upon thee, 
Look into thine eyes so deep ; 

With a daring hand I won thee. 
With a faithful heart I'll keep. 

" Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, 
Who was ever like to thee 1 

Jove w^ould lay aside his thunder, 
So he might be blest like me. 



198 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" How mine eyes so fondly linger 
On thy soft and pearly skin ; 

Scan each round and rosy finger, 
Drinking draughts of beauty in ! 

" Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest ! 

Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom 1 
Whence the rosy hue thou wearest, 

Breathing round thee I'ich perfume ?" 

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, 
Clasped her fondly to his side. 

Gazed on her with look enchanted, 
W^hile his Helen thus replied : 

" Be no discord, love, between us. 

If I not the secret tell ! 
'T was a gift I had of Venus, — 

Venus, who hath loved me well. 

" And she told me as she gave it, 
' Let not e'er the charm be known. 

O'er thy person freely lave it. 
Only when thou art alone.' 

" 'T is enclosed in yonder casket — 
Here behold its golden key ; 

But its name — love, do not ask it, 
Tell 't, I may not, even to thee !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 199 

Long with vow and kiss he plied her, 

Still the secret did she keep, 
Till at length he sank beside her. 

Seemed as he had dropped to sleep. 

Soon was Helen laid in slumber, 

When her Paris, rising slow. 
Did his fair neck disencumber 

From her rounded arms of snow ; 

Then her heedless fingers oping, 

Takes the key and steals away, 
To the eben table groping. 

Where the wondrous casket lay ; 

Eagerly the lid uncloses, 

Sees within it, laid aslope. 
Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses, 

Cakes of his Transparent Soap ! 



200 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



inug nf tljB €nu^t. 



I 'm weary, and sick, and disgusted 

With Britain's mechanical din ; 
Where I 'm much too well known to be trusted, 

And plaguily pestered for tin ; 
Where love has two eyes for your banker, 

And one chilly glance for yourself; 
Where souls can afford to be franker, 

But when they 're well garnished with pelf. 

I 'm sick of the v/hole race of poets. 

Emasculate, missy, and fine ; 
They brew their small beer, and don't know its 

Distinction from full-bodied wine. 
I 'm sick of the prosers, that house up 

At drowsy St. Stephen's, — ain't you 1 
I want some strong spirits to rouse up 

A good revolution or two ! 

I 'm sick of a land, where each morrow 

Repeats the dull tale of to-day. 
Where you can't even find a new sorrow, 

To chase your stale pleasures away. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 201 

I 'm sick of bliie-stockings horrific, 

Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols ; 

So I '11 off where the golden Pacific 
Round islands of r-aradlse rolls. 



There the passions shall revel unfettered, 

And the heart never speak but in truth, 
And the intellect wholly unlettered, 

Be bright with the freedom of youth ; 
There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms. 

Unsullied by vapor or soot, 
And there chimpanzees and opossums 

Shall playfully pelt me with fruit. 

There I '11 sit with my dark Orianas, 

In groves by the murmuring sea, 
And they '11 give, as I suck the bananas, 

Their kisses, nor ask them from me. 
They '11 never torment me for sonnets, 

Nor bore me to death with their own ; 
They '11 ask not for shawls nor for bonnets. 

For milliners there are unknown. 

There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, 
My curtains the night and the stars. 

And my spirit shall gather new powers, 
Uncramped by conventional bars. 

Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, 
My days shall be manfully sped ; 

I shall know that I 'm loved while I 'm living. 

And be wept by fond eyes when I 'm dead ! 
9* 



202 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



C^nrnlfe, 



Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine ! 

Easy, breezy Caroline ! 
With thy locks all raven-shaded, 
From thy merry brow up-braided, 
And thine eyes of laughter full, 

Brightsome cousin mine ! 
Thou in chains of love hast bound me- 
Wherefore dost thou flit around me, 

Laughter-loving Caroline *? 

When I fain would go to sleep 

In my easy chair. 
Wherefore on my slumbers creep — 
Wherefore start me from repose, 
Ticklhig of my hooked nose, 

Pulling of my hair 1 
Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me. 
So to words of anger move me. 

Corking of this face of mine, 

Tricksy cousin Caroline ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 203 

When a sudden sound I hear, 
Much my nervous system suffers, 

Shakhig through and through, — 
Cousin Caroline, I fear, 

'T was no other, now, but you 
Put gunpowder in the snuffers, 

Springing such a mine ! 
Yes, it was your tricksy self, 
Wicked-tricked, little elf, 

Naughty cousin Caroline ! 

Pins she sticks into my shoulder, 

Places needles in my chair. 
And, when I begin to scold her^ 

Tosses back her combed hair, 

With so saucy-vexed an air. 
That the pitying beholder 
Cannot brook that I should scold her : 
Then again she comes, and bolder, 

Blacks anew this face of mine, 

Artful cousin Caroline ! 

Would she only say she 'd love me, 

Winsome tinsome Caroline, 
Unto such excess 't would move me. 

Teasing, pleasing, cousin mine ! 
That she might the live-long day 
Undermine the snuffer tray, 
Tickle still my hooked nose. 
Startle me from calm repose 



204 THE BOOK 05" BALLADS. 

With her pretty persecution ; 
Throw the tongs against my shins, 
Run me through and through with pins, 

Like a pierced cushion ; 
Would she only say she 'd love me, 
Darning needles should not move me ; 
But reclining back, I 'd say, 
" Dearest ! there 's the snuffer tray ; 
Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine ! 

Cork me, cousin Caroline !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 205 



FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE TOKENS. 

Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye 
Did'st once look up in shady spot, 

To whisper to the passer-by 

Tliose tender words — Forget-me-not ! 

Though withered now, thou art to me 
The minister of gentle thought, — 

And I could weep to gaze on thee, 
Love's faded pledge — Forget-me-not ! 

Thou speak'st of hours when I v,^as young, 

And happiness arose unsought, 
When she, the whispering woods among, 

Gave me thy bloom — Forget-me-not ! 

What rapturous hour with that dear maid 
From memory's page no time shall blot, 

AVhen, yielding to my kiss, she said, 
"Oh, Theodore — Forget-ine-not !" 



206 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Alas, for love ! alas, for truth ! 

Alas for man's uncertain lot ! 
Alas for all the hopes of youth 

That fade like thee — Forget-me-not ! 

Alas ! for that one image fair, 

With all my brightest dreams inwrought ! 
That walks beside me everywhere, 

Still whispering — Forget-me-not ! 

Oh, memory ! thou art but a sigh 

For friendships dead and loves forgot ; 

And many a cold and altered eye. 
That once did say — Forget-me-not ! 

And I must bow me to thy laws. 

For — odd although it may be thought — 

I can't tell who the deuce it was 
That gave me this Forget-me-not ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 207 



€k M4^' 



" Why art thou weeping, sister ? 

Why is thy cheek so pale 1 
Look up, dear Jane, and tell me 

What is it thou dost ail 1 

" I know thy will is froward, 
Thy feelings warm and keen, 

And that that Augustus Howard 
For weeks has not been seen. 

" I know how much you loved him ; 

But I know thou dost not weep 
For him ; — for though his passion be, 

His purse is noways deep. 

" Then tell me why those teardrops ; 

What means this woful mood 1 
Say, has the tax-collector 

Been calling, and been rude ? 



208 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Or has that hateful grocer, 
The slave ! been here to-day 1 

Of course he had, by morrow's noon, 
A heavy bill to pay ! 

" Come, on thy brothex-'s bosom 

Unburden all thy woes ; 
Look 'up, look up, sweet sister ; 

There, dearest, blow your nose." 

" Oh, John, 't is not the grocer, 

For his account ; although 
How ever he is to be paid, 

I really do not know. 

" 'T is not the tax-collector ; 

Though by his fell command. 
They Ve seized our old paternal clock, 

And new umbrella-stand : 

" Nor that Augustus Howard, 

Whom I despise almost, — 
But the soot's come down the chimney, John, 

And fairly spoiled the roast 1" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 209 



(Cnmfnrt in afflirtinu. 



" Wherefore starts my bosom's lord 1 
Why this anguish in thine eye ? 

Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord 
Had broken with that sigh ! 

" Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, 
Rest thee on my bosom now ! 

And let me wipe the dews away, 
Are gathering on thy brow. 

" There, again ! that fevered start ! 

W^hat, love ! husband ! is thy pain 1 
There is a sorrow on thy heart, 

A weight upon thy brain ! 

" Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er 
Deceive affection's searching eye ; 

'T is a wife's duty, love, to share 
Her husband's agony. 



210 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Since the dawn began to peep, 
Have I lain with stifled breath ; 

Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, 
As thou wert at grips with death. 

" Oh, w^hat joy it was to see 

My gentle lord once more awake ! 

Tell me, what is amiss with thee 1 
Speak, or my heart will break !" 

"Mary, thou angel of my life, 
Thou ever good and kind ; 

'T is not, believe me, my dear wife, 
The anguish of the mind ! 

" It is not in my bosom dear, 
. No, nor my brain, in sooth ; 
But Mary, oh, I feel it here. 
Here in my wisdom tooth ! 

" Then give, — oh, first, best antidote. 
Sweet partner of my bed ! 

Give me thy flannel petticoat 
To wrap around my head !'* 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 211 



€]}t Snnnrntinu, 



" Brother, thou art very weary, 

And thine eye is sunk and dim, 
And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled, 

And thy collar out of trim ; 
There is dust upon thy visage, — 

Think not Charles I would hurt ye, 
When I say, that altogether. 

You appear extremely dirty. 

" Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee 

To thy chamber's distant room ; 
Drown the odors of the ledger 

With the lavender's perfume. 
Brush the mud from off thy trowsers, 

O'er the china basin kneel. 
Lave thy brows in w^ater softened 

With the soap of Old Castile. 

" Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead 
Now in loose disorder stray ; 

Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers 
Cut those ragged points away. 



212 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Let no more thy calculations 
Thy bewildered brain beset ; 

Life has other hopes than Cocker's, 
Other joys than tare and tret. 

" Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, 

Waiting to the very last, 
Twenty minutes after seven, 

And 't is now the quarter past. 
'T is a dinner which Lucullus 

Would have wept with joy to see, 
One, might wake the soul of Curtis 

From Death's drowsy atrophy. 

" There is soup of real turtle, 

Turbot, and the dainty sole ; 
And the mottled roe of lobsters 

Blushes through the butter bowl. 
There the lordly haunch of mutton. 

Tender as the mountain grass, 
Waits to mix its ruddy juices 

With the girdling caper-sauce. 

" There a stag, whose branching forehead 

Spoke him monarch of the herds. 
He whose flight was o'er the heather. 

Swift as through the air the bird's, 
Yields for thee a dish of cutlets ; 

And the haunch that wont to dash 
O'er the roaring mountain torrent, 

Smokes in most delicious hash. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 213 

"There, besides, are amber jellies 

Floating like a golden dream ; 
Ginger from the far Bermudas 

Dishes of Italian cream ; 
And a princely apple-dumpling, 

Which my own fair fingers wrought, 
Shall unfold its nectared treasures 

To thy lips all smoking hot. 

" Ha ! I see thy brow is clearing, 

Lustre flashes from thine eyes ; 
To thy lips I see the moisture 

Of anticipation rise. 
Hark ! the dinner bell is sounding !" 

" Only wait one moment, Jane : 
I'll be dressed, and down, before you 

Can get up the iced champagne !" 



214 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€)}t iMtani's f rfitinu. 



Come hither, my heart's darling, 

Come, sit upon my knee, 
And listen, while I whisper 

A boon I ask of thee. 
You need not pull my whiskers 

So amorously, my dove ; 
'T is something quite apart from 

The gentle cares of love. 

I feel a bitter craving — 

A dark and deep desire. 
That glows beneath my bosom 

Like coals of kindled fire. 
The passion of the nightingale, 

When singing to the rose, 
Is feebler than the agony 

That murders my repose ! 

Nay, dearest ! do not doubt me, 
Though madly thus I speak — 

I feel thy arms about me. 
Thy tresses on my cheek : 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 215 

I know the sweet devotion 

That links thy heart with mine, — 

I know my soul's emotion 
Is doubly felt by thine : 

And deem not that a shadow 

Hath fallen across my love : 
No, sweet, my love is shadowless, 

As yonder heaven above. 
These little taper fingers — 

Ah, Jane ! how white they be ! — 
Can well supply the cruel want 

That almost maddens me. 

Thou wilt not sure deny me 

My first and fond request ; 
I pray thee, by the memory 

Of all we cherish best — 
By all the dear remembrance 

Of those delicious days, 
When, hand in hand, we wandered 

Along the summer braes : 

By all we felt, unspoken, 

When 'neath the early moon, 
We sat beside the rivulet. 

In the leafy month of June ; 
And by the broken whisper 

That fell upon my ear. 
More sweet than angel-music. 

When first I woo'd thee, dear ! 



216 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



By that great vow which bound thee 

For ever to my side, 
And by the ring that made thee 

My darling and my bride ! 
Thou wilt not fail nor falter, 

But bend thee to the task — 

A BOILED sheep's-head ON SuNDAT 

Is all the boon I ask ! 




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